Convergence
by There Are Only Clocks
Summary: When Cato's heart gurgles back to life, President Snow finds himself with three victors. Eventual Cato x Katniss.
1. Do

"It takes a few moments to find Cato in the dim light, in the blood. Then the raw hunk of meat that used to be my enemy makes a sound, and I know where his mouth is. And I think the word he's trying to say is _please." _

-_The Hunger Games, _pgs. 340 - 341

**Convergence**

When Cato falls, Katniss doesn't feel anything. A survivor by nature, it would only seem natural to feel satisfaction over the misfortune of a foe who threatens survival. But instead, as her hands tighten around the smooth silver of the bow, she feels nothing but emptiness. It should bother her, she thinks, the lack of feeling she has. Instead, she watches the boy who loved to kill fall to the mutts who wait to kill him.

'_Predators hunt in packs,' _Katniss thinks.

And Cato finds his way to the eager jaws of a larger pack.

* * *

><p>Cato's armor, 'his greatest need,' slowly becomes his undoing. He fights the best he can, considering the circumstances. But even with all of his training, he is only a human boy. The mutts may not be the smartest of creatures, but their driving bloodlust is a powerful force to contend against.<p>

When they overwhelm him –_that much was inevitable anyway—_he counts the bites they carve in his flesh. Each is a reminder of how he has failed to win the Games he was born to conquer. The mutts do their best to shred him to pieces, whining and encouraging one another as the armor prevents the full strength of their teeth. His precious armor has sentenced him to a slow, brutal, bloody death. If the circumstances were different, Cato reckons he would have thoroughly appreciated such a death if only he was the one doing the killing.

The mutts do their work on his body and soon Cato is crying out. It goes against everything District 2 has taught him and he's ashamed that he's failing them even in this.

When the armor on his right arm eventually gives way, the mutts set upon it gleefully. They taunt with their fangs, running their salivary lips and yellowed teeth over the surface of his skin. Their breath smells like dead flesh and innocence and they strike with their bites without warning. The mutts marvel at the way in which their meal jumps and squirms from the random assaults. It only drives them on further to try and rip apart the rest of the armor. Cato imagines what he would do to the mutts if only he could reach his sword and tries to lose himself in that fantasy as he screams and screams and screams.

As Cato finally reaches his limit and his voice have whittled down to match what's left of his arm, he finds enough energy to call to the girl from District 12. _'Please,' _he requests, asking for mercy he may or may not have given if their situations were reversed.

Cato has raised in a District where pain was good, pain was taught, pain was given. _Pain _was _power. _Or it used to be. He felt no greater pain than admitting to that girl, of all tributes, that he has had enough, and he doesn't feel any power in that.

'_Please.' _

Cato has lost, and Katniss has won.

'_Please…' _

* * *

><p>As Katniss readies her arrow, Cato, first in everything he has done, has had enough. His heart beats once, twice, and then comes to a halt.<p>

As the cannon booms, instead of the mercy kill she intended, Katniss's arrow hits the mutt that was about to bite off Cato's head.

* * *

><p>Peeta, laying in a pool of growing blood, attempts to staunch the blood flow. He lifts the cloth to inspect his wound, winches, and replaces the bandage. At the sound of the cannon, he jerks his head up and over to see what has happened. "Katniss," he says, "that cannon, is Cato…?"<p>

Katniss stands overlooking the edge of the Cornucopia. Her body, so tight with anxious energy, deflates. She turns her head over her shoulder and Peeta glimpses a vulnerability that flashes through her eyes. Her relief that is it all over, finally all over, is clear and Peeta realizes just how much she has worked to hold it all together. It only makes him love her more.

"The mutts are leaving. Cato is dead," she tells him, "The Games are over."

Peeta struggles to rise, and Katniss rushes over to help him stand. "Don't over do it," she says. "You don't have the tourniquet anymore."

He offers her a faint smile. "Well, good thing we are going home. With some help from your mother, I'm sure I'll be fixed up in no time." Katniss and Peeta struggle their way down the ledge. The stress and fatigue of the Games has taken its toll on them, and now, with no adversities left, the drive that has kept them going slinks away. They are left with only quivering muscles, adrenaline withdrawal, and disbelief somewhere inside that they are at the end of this madness. Together and alive. Victors.

When they reach the ground, Peeta's body is shaking so badly that he has to sit down. Katniss sits down and leans against him, wishing she had the skills to heal and all too aware that the camera is still on them. Peeta jerks his head over to where Cato's body lies. The fleshy-armor is somewhat intact, depending on the place the viewer was looking. The blood, however, is unavoidable.

"I thought you shot…?"

Katniss shakes her head. "No, the cannon went off just as I went to shoot. I ended up hitting one of the mutts instead."

The blond glances down at his leg, feeling the _push, push, push _of the blood leaving his body too quickly for it to possibly be alright. "If they could do this to me, I can only imagine how he felt as their chew toy."

She draws her legs up in front of her and wraps her arms around her knees. Her body language reflects her mentality—drawing up into herself, keeping what wasn't destroyed safe from the memories that pound in her brain and demand attention she doesn't wish to give.

"I rather not think of that," Katniss tells him. And that is that.

The two stare straight ahead into waiting cameras they cannot see but know are there, and wait for the Games to officially end.

* * *

><p>The gamemakers are in an uproar and there is nothing Seneca Crane can do about it. With President Snow undoubtedly watching, Crane's anxiety heightens as he tries to regain control of a Game that has started to crumble the moment the girl from 12 volunteered.<p>

Some controllers watch the monitors, mystified, as the tributes that remain refuse to kill one another. Crane's grand finale, his triumph, the key to regain President Snow's approval, has turned upon him and he is at a loss of what to do. _'This has never happened before,' _he thoughts stumble upon each other, each racing to the forefront of his brain only to be then trampled by another vicious, panicking thought of a man who knows his time may be up.

"_Just what are you going to do, Seneca?"_ President Snow asks him in his mind, his fingers twirling a soft white rose between the tips of his fingers.

'_Two victors / no victors / two victors / no victors,' _he debates, watching as the monitor displays Katniss and Peeta reaching for nightlock-flavored suicide that will no doubt cause a larger uproar than Snow will ever tolerate. The sweat is trickling down his forehead in greasy lines that leave trails on his cheek and puddle in his beard.

'_Two victors,' _he decides, _'is better than no victors,' _and presses the loudspeaker to stop the pair just in time. The control room is deadly quiet after his announcement, an unspeakable feeling creeping around the room, spreading from person to person like a silent disease none would admit to. Two victors for the Hunger Games? It was unheard of. It is unnatural. It is dangerous.

Crane forges ahead in his facade of control, ordering the team waiting on the sidelines of the arena to go down and collect the two victors. The Hunger Games needed its victor(s) just as Panem needed the Hunger Games. Or so it was taught.

The Head Gamemaker draws out a rumbled handkerchief and blots his face. The cloth smears the sweat around but does not do much to help. He nearly jumps out of him skin as an assistant tells him that President Snow is on the hologram phone, waiting to speak with him. He answers with poorly masked despair, knowing how much depended on this phone call.

"Two victors?" asks Snow's hologram on the call monitor. "Two?"

Crane blots his forehead again and rushes to answer. "I know it's unheard of sir, but how could a Hunger Games not have a victor? It would create—"

"Martyrs," Snow interrupts, "You would have given me a pair of martyrs."

"I know sir, that's why I thought it would be bes—"

"So instead," Snow thunders in his quiet way, "You give Panem hope. And you know what we discussed about hope."

"Oh yes sir!" Crane rushes to answer. "But I—"

An assistant gamemaker approaches Seneca Crane, skin pale and drawn and walking the walk of a freshly chosen tribute. "Sir?" She calls to him, but it batted away as one would do with an obnoxious gnat. "Not now, can't you see I'm busy?" he reprimands her in his high pitched way, "I'm sorry, President Snow. She—"

Snow doesn't move a muscle in holograph, but he doesn't really need to in order for his words to carry the weight he places behind them. "Two victors, Crane. You better—"

This time Snow is the one interrupted, as the assistant gamemaker tries again. She hops slightly back and forth from one anxious foot to another, a nervous bird in many respects, but birds aren't something that Crane wants to think about now. But Snow turns his unfeeling gaze and Crane is babbling in the background but it is now the assistant in the spotlight.

Snow stares her down, his eyes glinting as he asks, "Just what is so important, miss?"

The assistant gamemaker fails not to squirm under such a stare as she points in the direct of the monitors and towards the rest of the gamemakers with their slack jawed expressions.

"It's the male tribute from District 2," she manages to get out. "It's his heart. It started back up—" and her voice grinds to a halt at the look Snow has on his face. The screen with the tribute's picture has the words 'ALIVE' glowing behind, the tracker verifying a nightmare Crane did not believe could possibly get worse. "What do we do, sir? We already have the retrieval team out there right now with the District 12 tributes and every screen is currently streaming this around the nation."

Snow looks to the monitor that shows Katniss, the girl who has caused him so much trouble, speaking with the retrieval team and gesturing towards her fellow tribute who remains on the ground. In her hands, clutched tight, is the silver bow. The second monitor shows a body covered in dented armor and an arm that looks beyond repair and a boy that should be dead but now isn't.

"Leave him as is," Snow announces.

Crane protests, still in a state of shock at the further worsening of his already perilous situation, "But his chest. You can see it slightly rising and falling. He's not quite dea—"

The gamemaker is silenced with a look from Snow, who insists, "He has been declared as dead. So whether he died a few minutes ago or a few moments from now, he will still be dead."

"But shouldn't he be entitled to treatment? The Games are officially over, if I restart them now the Districts will be thrown into chaos—"

"Your idiocy for an underdog has already caused enough trouble," Snow cuts in. "If you let it be known that the District 2 tribute is still alive, it will only continue mutilate the purpose of this entire event. The Hunger Games has only one victor and you have already botched that simple understanding. Keep quiet and let the boy join the dead."

Crane has enough sense to close his mouth and obey his President.

* * *

><p>As the medical team gets ready to load Peeta onto the hovercraft, Katniss does some hovering of her own over his body. She has protected him for so long (<em>too long<em>?), that it was a hard habitat to break. "He is going to be fine, right?" she questions, nodding her head along to their reassuring replies but not quite believing it until Peeta gets help he needs and they are far away from the Capital. Back to District 12, where it isn't any safer—_for what place is safe from a government that makes a show out of children killing children?—_but it is familiar and that is all Katniss wants right now.

At the thought of home, Katniss reaches up idly to touch the mockingjay pin that has never left her since she was unceremoniously funneled into the arena weeks ago, and is startled to find that it's gone. She unzips her battered jacket and runs her hands across the empty, glaring space where the pin once sat.

Noticing her frantic movements, Peeta calls to her, "What's wrong?"

"It's my pin, Peeta. My mockingjay pin. It's gone."

Strapped to a gurney and being clucked at by the medics, Peeta still attempts to lift his body and glance around the area, as if doing so would reveal the location of the pin. "Could it have fallen off when we were fighting Cato?"

Uncertainly flitters across her face. "Can't hurt to look," she tells him, and heads back over to the Cornucopia. The cameras zoom to follow behind her and she imagines the way the reporters are reveling in this. _The Girl on Fire, the unlikely victor, taking the time to search for a pin when most would just leave as soon as possible! Guts, _they would say, _guts! _

Katniss walks around the side of the Cornucopia, her footsteps bringing up little clouds of dust that cover her boots. The dirt falls and sticks in random patterns to the drying blood that cake them. The blood has become so mixed Katniss doesn't even remember who it is that actually stains her boots. _'Maybe it's better that way,' _she thinks as she walks, her footprints marking a path of her own, intercepting the jumbled, frenzied ones left behind from the mutts.

She passes by the mutt she has killed, her arrow wedged deep within the soft tissue of its brain as if she had stuck her arrow into an exceptionally fleshy melon. The dark furred mutt reminds her a bit of Clove, she thinks, as she studies it. The creature has died with its mouth snarled open, ropes of bloodied saliva hanging from its teeth. Clove, who lusted for the kill, more than she lusted for life. On some level, Katniss realizes that for Clove, life was in death.

She finds her pin, half submerged in a damp pool of sticky blood that stems from Cato's mangled arm. As she kneels to retrieve it, she looks at the face of her rival and takes in how very still his face is. Animated Cato, who was always so quick to anger, quick to act, quick to lead, had always seemed so quick to die, except when death was actually upon him.

"Katniss, hurry! Did you find the pin?" She hears them call. She draws herself up while taking in broken form of the Career, and begins to walk away, but something draws her gaze back. Later on, she might have come to regret what made her take a second look at the boy who proved himself to be nothing more than a killing machine—a boy who cannot simply forget how to be a killer even when taken outside of the arena.

But she notices, and she stops and drops back down to her feet. Impatient with what was taking the second Victor so long to return, the medics appear to retrieve Katniss. They fuss at her, telling her to leave the corpse alone and to come along with them. But Katniss places her hand above Cato's face, testing for air that confirms what she realized only moments before.

With the cameras that worship her every movement remain fixated on the unlikely victor, the words fight their way out before she decides whether it is best to keep them to herself. The words are like Cato himself, fighting her to the very end, even as she tries to hold them in. They slip out like sluggish blood to the medics, sliding past the lips of a girl who cannot understand how this could be fair.

"He's breathing. Cato. He's still alive."

_How could such a killer be alive, when tributes like Rue aren't? _

Panem erupts from the announcement, and President Snow finds himself with three victors.

Seneca Crane finds himself very much dead.


	2. You

"For a moment, everything seems frozen in time. Then the apples spill to the ground and I'm blown backward into the air."

-_ The Hunger Games, _pg. 221

**Convergence**

Chapter Two

In the moment following an explosion, there is a distinct pause. The force of the flare has just begun to rupture down the fault lines, a hinting promise of what will rattle the teeth of the world. And within this instant of time, the brace before the blast, that springs false calm and an insight that goes trickling into the mind and draping itself across the senses.

Time has slowed down enough to allow a person a chance to consider the implications of what is about to come, but won't ever be enough to truly understand. For the detonation has already engulfed the world, billowing through television screens and slipping past smudged kitchen windows_. _The explosion unleashes and snaps the strings of people held as puppets in suspension's threads. Knocked backwards from the fury of the eruption, the players scramble to find a proper way to deal with what has happened, while the stagnant are swallowed up alive.

* * *

><p>Peeta protests as the gurney he is strapped to is wheeled onto the waiting hovercraft. "Where's Katniss?' he demands, "I'm not leaving the arena until she's here with me." He puts up a show of a struggle against the fastenings that bind him in place, all bravado and puffed up defiance. The medics know this, and decisively push him back into place.<p>

"Victor Mellark, calm yourself! Don't worry and let us do our duty," the one closest to Peeta's face scolds him. The medic has a soothing voice that hints of antiseptic and sterile rooms, and it makes Peeta uneasy. "Do you think Victor Everdeen would appreciate your stubbornness and lack of cooperation? We need to get you on board immediately for treatment."

The blond dismisses what they say, for he has set his mind on remaining in the arena until Katniss is back. Looking for her pin has taken far too long, and Peeta envisions her treading through the bloody field in a desperate search for a piece of her humanity. Drawn back to the grassy grave site, which leaks human blood from the dark of its soil. It is a place fertilized by the carnage of mutilated innocence and haunted by the ghosts of the forgotten children who walk it. He turns his head towards the Cornucopia and pleads with his ravaged body to cooperate with this one last effort. Though his voice barely carries, Peeta calls, "Katniss! Katniss! Where are you?"

The medics _tutt tutt _at his impertinence and begin to wheel him towards the ship. Even with the emergency medical aid performed in effort to save his leg, Peeta can still feel the hot pulse of his blood making a hasty exit from his body. But Peeta doesn't care about himself, he can't give a damn about his leg or his life if Katniss is still unaccounted for. So he continues to call for her the best he can, even when the pain of his injuries fogs his mind and causes spots to grow like fungi across his vision. And when Peeta can no longer to gain control of his tongue, he yells for her in his mind. _'Katniss, Katniss!'_

The cameras are sure to zoom in and capture the meaty mess of Peeta's leg and span across his pasty face and dilated eyes. _'Just look!' _the announcers would say, _'What devotion! Peeta Mellark is bleeding out on the gurney and may lose the leg, but all that matters is where his ladylove is! Could you imagine such a thing?' _

When Peeta's body eventually wins out over his will, and his mind begins to slip away, he manages to see one of the medics frantically pulling others away from his bedside and gesturing towards the Cornucopia.

"Hurry, we have to move quick. Bring the supplies, I don't think we have much time," the medic informs the others. The words are short and to the point, filled with troubled energy that spills over into each syllable. He takes in their anxious efforts and immediately thinks the worst. _'KATNISS!' _Her name rings through Peeta's mind even after the blood loss knocks him out.

* * *

><p>When news of District 2's tribute slips from Katniss's lips and floods the airways, there is a definitive moment of incomprehension for those around the nation who stand watching. '<em>Another tribute? Alive? How could this be?'<em> The constant live stream of the Game cuts away from Cato's mangled body. The cameras, who only mere moments before had glorified the gory scene, and made the extra effort to get the best angles and up-close shots of Katniss confronting the shell of her rival. Only now the cameramen are at a loss, for it's not so magnificent when the body that is supposed to be a corpse is actually still alive.

As the camera shot switches over to an unconscious Peeta, the implication of what has transpired goes _Pop! Pop! Pop! _within the minds of those who watch (and who have been watching for a very long time).

'_The Career from 2 is still alive. The Career from 2 is still alive.' _

The whispers break out from those brave enough to speak, their eyes on the looming Peacekeepers who seem to be at a loss of what to do. '_The Games are over, the Games are done. The boy lives still—but for how long? Will he be a spared victor or a properly killed victim?' _

Some district citizens call for the stream to switch back to Cornucopia and forget the hovercraft and the bread boy, but their neighbors quickly shush those that do. Even in a time of confusion, there is the instinctive urge to follow the law and not speak badly against the Capital. It is just the correct thing to do, even when the sheep disagree against the actions of their shepherd.

* * *

><p>When President Snow gives the order for the medics to begin treating the tribute from 2, he does not do so lightly. It is not because he has any real interest in trying to save the Cato's life. In fact, Snow hopes the blond boy takes it upon himself to snuff out, just like he should have done in the first place.<p>

Snow guardedly observes the medics who rush to comply with the surprising new orders and the gamemakers who hurry to fulfill their President's wishes. His subordinates do not know what Snow is thinking, but perhaps it is better this way.

To question the President was to end up like poor, unfortunate, Seneca Crane, who is dragged sniveling from the room as soon as Katniss Everdeen opens her mouth and unleashes her pipe bomb. Snow can practically hear the tiny eruptions from all over Panem, the whispers that won't stop since fear can only hold them in check for so long.

Too much hope is bad for a nation and President Snow will not stand for it. It is not his way.

So instead, Snow remains calm amongst the chaos, looking down on the frantic faces of those in the control room and it reinforces to him how much he is needed to keep order. The Hunger Games has done that for him for so many years—_and dare say, he did enjoy a good Game—_but all of that has now gone to hell.

He contemplates the temptation of ordering the medics to let the boy die, but with emotions running high in the Districts, forces Snow to reconsider. High emotions can form mobs and riots, anarchy among the underdogs and mutiny from the rich. There are already reports that hint of such a thing starting to fester within the Districts. To outright allow the District 2 tribute to die, well, Snow acknowledges that some simply may not accept that. He must plan his next moves carefully, for hope is springing up all around him and he needs to quickly strangle the emotion out of his people without upsetting the balance.

To have the 'star-crossed lovers' both emerge as victors is one thing—_though he very much doubted their little ploy—_but the crowds gorged themselves on the fantasy of it. It is dangerous for the government's strict authority, but it will not cause as many problems as having three victors can create. For at least with the lovers, people can understand why the rules were changed while still fearing the Games themselves. A fluke, an accident, the wiles of a young couple in love that the Districts will eat up. It goes without saying that President Snow already plans on making it clear that this will never happen again, but at least he can spin the unlikely two-victor outcome in a fashion that will preserve the Capital's authority. '_The Capital only wants what's best for the people, after all,' _or so he would say.

But to have an unconnected upstarter in the drama that was Katniss and Peeta, now, that is an even larger problem in and of itself. The Career is clearly beaten, as so many tributes have been before in one gruesome way or another, and yet the Capital will attempt to save this one? All because the Games, which has been declared as over and its victor(s) decided, still has one Career with the audacity to cling to life when he should have remained a fallen tribute?

Since when has the fanciful emotion of mercy been granted within a Hunger Games?

This kind of thinking can twist and branch, empowering the powerless to demand just what else the about Capital is 'wrong'—_President Snow uses the word loosely, for he is not wrong—_in their iron-tight dominance of the nation. These thoughts are dangerous, these thoughts are deadly, and these thoughts can cause the fall of a government.

Backed into a corner, President Snow curses the birth of the girl from 12. To disallow treatment of the boy would only fuel the wildfire she had sparked, and President Snow is all about containment.

So he gives the order to switch back the cameras to the distasteful drama and grant the people what they wanted. Allow them to feast on the improbability of it all while President Snow uses the distraction to set Panem right again.

* * *

><p>The nation may be talking, and the President may be swearing, but the girl in the middle of it all has other things on her mind. Katniss stares down upon Cato's body, preoccupied with the telltale signs of life. She doesn't know why she can't tear her gaze away from the <em>thump, thump, <em>pathetic little_ thump _of a heart that fights dehydration in a body so empty of blood.

How could it be that the one who loved to kill, was made to kill, and who killed the most, be granted some sort of miracle?

Katniss doesn't believe in miracles. She believes in survival and in herself, for she has had to learn it at a very young age. It is a lesson that the Hunger Games has reinforced with only a few exceptions. Katniss has looked into the eyes of the dying and heard the gurgling rasps of a last drawn breath extracted from a body that had nothing left to give. There are no miracles in a world where children are awarded the honor of an early death all so the crowds who watch can praise their slaughter. The more gruesome, the higher the ratings.

More medics are arriving on the scene and she is shooed away from the body. Katniss watches as they roll down the gurney, break out the tourniquets, and prepare the respirator. _'All to save the life of a boy,' _she thinks, _'whose death they celebrated and laughed at moments before. Whose death won some money, lost others bets, and all around provided a quality Hunger Games finale.'_

Katniss may not really care about the likes of Cato, but she thinks of Rue and Thresh, Foxface, the young boy with the cornflower blue eyes from 4 and the girl with the knobby knees from 8. She sees the faces of her fellow tributes and imagines how the world must of have rated each and every one of their deaths. What a sick, sick world.

She clenches her pin in the palm of her grubby hand and feels the tip of the needle slid to meet her skin. The needle draws blood. Morbidly she watches it ooze from the wound and dribble down in rusty red drops to cover the pin. Down the pin her blood goes, meeting with the drying blood of Cato's that already coats the surface. The two mix together in an intimate alliance that Katniss wants no part of.

"What are the chances of his survival?" She asks the medic closest to her. Katniss doesn't like surprises, and craves answers to situations she can prepare for.

The medic, in the process of inserting a breathing tube down Cato's throat, answers, "We'll see if the odds are in his favor."

Katniss may not like surprises or the workings of the world, and may not share in the joys of the Games, but she has no lost love for a Career who killed so many without a hint of a conscience. If he dies—good riddance. And if he lives, she would deal with him then.

The medics rush around, stumbling over one another in their own frantic manner, attempting to figure out how to get their third victor back on the hovercraft without losing him along the way. The cameras zoom in to get the best view of the scene, hoping to thrill the captive audience with the delights of a boy struggling to keep his heat beating.

Katniss turns her back on the scene and returns to Peeta.

* * *

><p>It is the little moments that stand out within the overall picture. The tiny pauses before the grand affair, the few seconds that freeze within the flow of time and memory. In the instant Cato slips off the bloody metal of the Cornucopia, he acknowledges that when he hit the ground, it will be all over. The mutts will have their dinner, the Capital will have their show, and the two from 12 will have their victory.<p>

So why is he still alive?

There are voices that reach him in his semi-unconscious state. They are shrill and jabbering, the pitch stabbing into his brain like the pinpricks of tiny needles. His body aches with a pain so intense he can feel it throbbing at the edges of his brain, waiting to overtake him. He is one oversized, open, oozing sore of raw flesh and torn muscle, with jagged pieces of his skin shredded clean away. His heart beats so slowly and weighs so heavy that Cato feels each time the muscle constricts and compresses with every feeble beat. And Cato wonders if this hell—with his strength is gone, the body defeated, and his honor flayed alive for all those watching to see.

The voices grow stronger, murmuring around him as they prod at his body and make their notes. They poke at him, concentrating on the broken areas that make his body convulse from pain and talking excitedly amongst themselves. Cato is lost in the dark recesses of his mind, but the scalding pain of the salve they slop onto his wounds pulls him further from whatever comfort unconsciousness offered.

When they reach his mangled arm, it is almost too much to bear. The sedative injected into his haggard veins lethargically makes it way through his system and darkness takes over again.

Before he drifts away, Cato focuses on the painful _thu-thump _of his heart, and realizes it links him to a different kind of hell.

* * *

><p>"Well? Don't just stand there. Report in."<p>

The doctor shifts uncomfortably under the glacial gaze of the President and wipes his sweating hands against the gore that stains his scrubs. With the cameras streaming live footage of the entire procedure and the announcers gaily commenting on the extent of the damage, it had not been the easiest of treatments.

"We were able to stabilize both of the male Tributes, though there were a couple of times I thought we would lose one or both of them, sir."

Snow's expression betrays none of his feelings, but the doctor is smart enough to realize this isn't the good news his President was hoping for.

"We what we can, sir. Even with all our efforts, it is still going to take some days for the injuries we were able to fix to fully heal themselves. The wounds were deep and one of the tributes even had a tooth stuck in his flesh. See?" The doctor pulls out the lethal tooth and thrusts it outward for Snow to see. He waves it slightly in the air and accidentally cuts himself on a serrated edge.

Snow ignores the foolishness of the doctor and presses him again. "You were unable to heal all of the wounds, doctor?"

The doctor tucks the tooth away—_a perfect souvenir gift from the 74__th__ Hunger Games! Even the blood and gristle stuck on the tooth is authentic, he'd tell his friends—_and points his finger in the direction of the tribute from 12. "We were able to stop the majority of his bleeding, but his leg is done for." He points with the opposite hand to the Career on the blood-soaked satin sheets. "And 2's had it pretty bad from those mutts. I'm not sure how long his heart stopped for, so I don't know if he'll have any resulting brain damage from the lack of oxygen. He'll have light scaring on his body, of course, but his right arm doesn't look like it'd ever function correctly again."

Snow strokes his beard as he considers this, and asks, "Your recommendation then, doctor?"

"I would amputate both of their limbs and give them a prosthetic a piece. It'll allow them to live a pretty normal everyday life and—"

"Perform the surgery on the boy from 12 then," the President orders without waiting for the doctor to finish.

"Sir, but what about 2? I'm not certain if he'll ever regain full mobility with that arm again. The injury is just too extensive—and the nerve damage! Without a prosthetic, he will most likely be crippled for life. And we don't even know about whatever brain damage might have ha-"

President Snow, impatient now with the whole thing, orders the doctor again. "Replace 12's leg. Leave 2's arm. We shall see the condition of his mental state soon enough."

"Are you sure? I mean there are supplements and experimental treatments we can try for the arm, but it just seems so cruel to leave him as suc—"

"Are you sure, doctor, that you wish to question me?" Snow's voice slides out.

The doctor drops his gaze to the ground and inspects the grungy tile behind his feet. "No, sir. I'm just trying to decide what is best for my patients. District 2 could always have the surgery later on, but it might be more damaging on his psyche to wait, sir, and I—"

President Snow stares him down. "That is why you leave the decisions to me, doctor."

"I—yes, President Snow. Of course."

If President Snow had his way, there would be no discussion on the treatment of two additional victors. Instead, their corpses would be lining the walls of the lab below the Capital, a perfect supply of body parts for the experiments conducted down there. But for now he would have to wait and plan and bid his time. Give the Districts a taste of what they cry for and then find the perfect way to subtlety take it all away.

Two victors are a problem in and of itself, but three? No, three is a carefully contained catastrophe waiting to happen. The tribute from 2 should have been left for dead, a raw piece of fleshy meat to bake in the heat of the field until someone eventually came by to pick up the corpse. The District 2 tribute had his life—for now, anyway—and President Snow would leave him with a welcome back gift in the form of a crippled arm to express just to how he feels about that.

For the moment Katniss Everdeen announces for all of the thirsty ears of Panem to hear that the tribute from District 2 is still alive—_three victors for the 74__th__ Hunger Games?—_it ignites a detonation across the nation.

And unfortunately for Katniss Everdeen, President Snow digs in his feet and comes up with a way to handle the very regrettable situation.

* * *

><p><strong>Hello, everyone! I just want to thank all of you who took the time to read (and hopefully enjoy) this story. I haven't written creativity in years, so I fear I'm a bit rusty. I can't emphasize enough how much each and every review can truly make an author's day, so an extra special thank you for all those who took the time to do so.<strong>

**This is most definitely a Cato x Katniss story—eventually. I'm trying to keep it as realistic and in-character as possible, so any relationship between the two would take undoubtedly take a sizable amount of time to get there. But isn't the best thing about romance the build up? **


	3. Think

"It was as if the impact had knocked every wisp of air from my lungs, and I lay there struggling to inhale, to exhale, to do anything."

–_The Hunger Games, _pg. 21

**Convergence**

Chapter Three

In life, there is always a plan.

Expectations are based on calculated odds. The unknown is terrifying, but structure is a blessing.

So what happens to a person when the plan is forced to change?

Change is relentless. It can break the minds of those who just can't accept it. They will never walk a new path, but instead linger in the debris of what they cannot rebuild.

Some, however, are able to patch themselves back together. They discard what has been lost and incorporate new pieces. For the better, for the worse, they stumble over to a different path and begin to walk.

* * *

><p>Before Haymitch sees Katniss again, he works hard at getting drunk. Unsurprisingly, certifiably drunk. What starts out as a drink or two to calm his nerves—<em>isn't that how it always starts?—<em>turns into another and another as he empties the bottle.

'_It's easier to get through this life numb,' _he figures, _'than to have to feel.' _

But Katniss and Peeta, his two unlikely underdog victors, have done something Haymitch has never expected. They win.

But in the wake of their return, Haymitch begins to feel again. Hope, fluttering in his chest, and relief like a breath held in too long. So many years and too many tributes. Haymitch thinks they might have driven him mad—forsaken children who stare up at him with begging eyes that plead for the secret of survival.

The problem is that he doesn't have a secret like that to share.

The tributes stare and beg and pin their hopes on his help, and then they die. They always, always die. No matter what he does, how he helps, or the efforts he makes.

The tributes of District 12 are sentenced to become corpse fodder for the Capital. The cameras love them, for the runts of the arena always seem to squeal the loudest.

And as they die, as they always do, a bit of what is left of Haymitch dies too.

'_Maybe it's easier that way,' _Haymitch considers, swinging back his last drink and missing the burn, '_for what do I do with tributes that actually come back alive?' _

He can advise them, guide them, and prep them for an almost guaranteed butchering. But dealing with how to be a victor? _'I don't have a clue about that,' _Haymitch thinks, tossing the empty bottle away. He is a mess of a victor himself.

When the Capital officials inform him that Katniss will be there shortly, Haymitch is happily through another bottle of alcohol, though he's not nearly as close to inebriation as he wants. The officials eye him in disgust, but Haymitch is almost past caring. In Snow's Panem, it is better to be the drunk than the hunk, something that the oldest District 12 victor knows all too well.

In other Games, after his former tributes have met with decapitation, drowning, or disease (or some other ill-fated stroke of a knife), Haymitch is left to observe the newly crowned victor from another District. _'They think by surviving the Games that it is over,' _he emotionlessly considers, watching the victor from afar, '_but in truth, it will never be over.' _ Winning the Games will only bind the victor in tighter chains, fetters wrapping around the throat in invisible links.

All victors strangle from the asphyxiation of the soul. It is just inevitable.

Haymitch, who has never had a victor, now finds himself with two winners he must pass this burden on to. There isn't anything he can do to help, for he is suffocating as well.

Snow's anger will no doubt speed along this process.

'_I don't know what you were thinking, Katniss, when you announced to the world that the killer from District 2 lives,' _Haymitch thinks, suddenly wishing he had another shot of whiskey as the door opens and Katniss is standing before him, '_but Snow's not going to forget it.' _

When Katniss surprises them both by hugging him, Haymitch belatedly comprehends that all of the alcohol in the world will never be enough to make him forget that he cares, no matter how much it hurts.

* * *

><p>"You're in trouble, sweetheart."<p>

Katniss crosses her legs and looks stubbornly away from Haymitch. "When can I see Peeta?"

Haymitch lets out a small groan of frustration. "Now's not the time to be worrying about that. By all accounts, you shouldn't even have a second victor to worry about seeing. And don't get me started with that little stunt you pulled with the Career, bringing the total up to three."

"Are you trying to say that you wish Peeta had died, then?" Katniss is immediately on the defensive for the Boy with the Bread.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Don't jump to conclusions, sweetheart. Of course I don't want that. I am happy that you both managed to come back."

The brunette isn't pacified. "You make it sound like it would be easier if I just killed him."

"In all honesty? It would be. Hey!" Haymitch puts up his hands to fend off Katniss's anger as she opens her mouth to protest. "Calm down. Doing what you did with the nightlock berries would have cost you, regardless. The Capital doesn't appreciate being shown up, especially at their own Game. Listen, I'm not saying I don't agree with what you did," Haymitch hurries to reassure her, "but Snow doesn't see it that way."

"Well, President Snow can go shove it up his a—"

"Katniss! Stop. This is serious."

Haymitch leans forward, bracing his arms on his legs and folding his hands together. "It wouldn't have been easy, but I could have worked with that kind of finale. Done something to preserve the namby-pamby pride of the capital." He shifts position, flinging his arms wide. "Behold! The lovers who cannot bear to be apart!" Katniss makes a face.

"Make all the faces you want. Since spinning a story like that isn't going to help our cause now with Snow." Haymitch leans forward again, solemn. "The real problem we have here, Katniss, is whatever possessed you to announce to the world that the Career from District 2 still lived."

She shifts uncomfortably, for she wishes she had a good reason. "Shock? Exhaustion? I didn't mean to. It just sort of slipped out."

"Slipped out? Now there's an answer if I ever heard one." The older man quirks his lips into some ironic semblance of a smile. "Couldn't be content with saving one, had to go for two?"

Katniss fidgets again, even though it's not true at all. Even in her wildest lunacies, she never thought she would help Cato with _anything. _In fact, she doesn't give two squirrels about what happened to him. Cato always wanted the Games, and to Katniss, it seems only fair that the Games got to keep him in the end. Or should have, anyway.

"I'm guessing the medics were able to stabilize Cato?" Katniss asks, though somewhere inside she already knows the answer.

"Oh, he's still alive alright. All thanks to you." Haymitch lets out a bark of laughter. "Stubborn bastard just doesn't know how to lose."

Her mentor reaches for another bottle and wrenches off the cork with well-practiced ease. "Trouble's coming, sweetheart. And I hope you're ready for it." He pours the amber colored liquid into priceless Capital crystal and takes a long swig. "Thing is, I don't know whether it will be Cato or Snow who reaches you first."

* * *

><p>One Clove. Two Cloves. Three Cloves. Four. A room full of Clovers, but none of which are real.<p>

The many Cloves smirk at Cato, laughing, and converge into one single, slight image of a girl.

"Oh, Cato. This is going to be such fun!" His former tribute partner tells him gleefully, and her shade rushes at him, knives drawn. As she collides into him, her image shatters into tiny fragments, and Cato wakes up.

His first coherent thought is that the room is too bright and it hurts his eyes. _'I'm alive…?' _It seems impossible after all he has endured.

Cato groans as the pain in his head slams against the wall of his skull, but pain is his power once again. Pain means he still has breath in his body, a beat beneath his ribcage. Satisfaction worms its way up from his gut.

'_If I'm still alive…if the Capital brought me here…then that means… I am...'_

All around him is the stink of sanitation and the room is much too white and his brain jumps to all sorts of conclusions.

If Cato is alive, than the two from 12 must be dead.

'_I am the victor.' _

His head is throbbing and it was difficult to keep his thoughts in line and then—

Cato realizes that something is not all quite right with his arm.

'_**No.**__**'**_

His arm is a highway of angry red flesh and jagged teeth marks. The skin, pitted in some places, tells of where a fang sunk in just a bit too deep. A small valley of missing muscle that could not be coaxed into returning has formed on the upper bicep and the ring finger is but a nub, the rest of it popped clean off the top joint. In comparison to the rest of his brawny frame, the arm is a patchwork puppet parody.

'_No fucking way.' _

All the air is sucked out of his lungs and the sound of his stubborn, sturdy heart is ricocheting down his ear canals and driving itself screaming into his brain.

'_Not to me.' _

When Cato attempts to lift up the decrepit limb, what is left of the muscles throb in shrill agony. He can only manage to raise it roughly a foot above his bed before his arm locks and goes no further. The muscles spasm and his entire body breaks out in an exertion-driven sweat.

He can barely make a fist.

'_This isn't me.' _

His right arm. His sword arm.

A travesty.

Cato can't breathe.

"What the fuck. What the fuck. **WHAT THE FUCK**!" The sterile room closes in around him and all he can see is the crippled limb and hear Clove's laughter echoing in his ears.

'_This cannot be happening_. _This absolutely cannot be happening,_' he chants, ripping out the IV lodged in his veins. _'Wake up, Cato. This isn't real. I won't let it be real.' _

The IV falls to the ground and leaks green-tinged fluid across pristine tile, and all Cato wants to do is tear this imposter off of his strong, proud body.

'I—'

The door to the room opens, and Cato whips his head up to find Katniss Everdeen standing in the frame of the doorway, a basket of bread in one arm and shock stamped across her face.

And Cato realizes, within a moment of false calm, that he is not the true Victor at all.

* * *

><p>There is a second of silence, interrupted only by the monitors that mime Cato's heartbeat, as well as Peeta's, the roommate the Career didn't even notice he had.<p>

'_His arm. Cato's arm…!' _Katniss can't help her stare, her blatant surprise fueling Cato's shame and fury. Like a wounded animal, he rounds on her.

"What kind of _sick _joke is this, 12?" Cato's pupils are dilated to the degree that the black almost eclipses the blue. There is a hack in his voice, as he forces air into his heaving lungs while trying to get the words out.

Katniss's back stiffens and she's not sure how to deal with him. "I don't know what the Capital did to you after the arena."

"What they did? _What they did?" _He sarcastically looks down at his arm. "I think it's _obvious, _12! They didn't fix…_this._"

"Don't treat me as if I'm stupid. I don't know why they didn't give you a prosthetic," Katniss retorts. The arena is where Cato has all the power, but now he snarls at her in the middle of crisp white sheets and a ruined arm, and doesn't seem very powerful at all.

Katniss knows better though. '_Injured…but not to be counted out.' _After years of hunting, Katniss does not underestimate a wounded predator.

'_Of all possible people…and out of all chances…it's him.' _

Hostile, violent, hungry Cato.

'_Why is he still here, when Rue isn't?' _

She feels the weight of Games on her shoulders and the viciousness of the Capital like a knife in the gut.

'_Seeing him alive,' _she thinks, '_instead of someone else who has more of a right than he does to be in that bed...' _

Rue. Thresh. Foxface.

'_I think…I hate_ _him. For that. And for them.' _

Whether she is in the arena or out of it, Katniss acknowledges that Cato is Cato. She knows what he has done and all he would have loved to do if the Games had gone his way.

_'Am I supposed to feel bad for you? That you may have some difficultly slitting throats, breaking necks, and disemboweling other human beings now that you've essentially lost your arm?'_

And after all she has seen of him, Katniss can't find pity for the boy slaughtered so many, feasting his own ego on their cries and in their blood. _'But you didn't kill me, did you, Cato? Even after everything you said, everything you did. You didn't get me, and you didn't get—'_

Against her better judgment, Katniss's eyes stray briefly towards the bed in which Peeta rests, and Cato notices the other boy for the first time.

"Lover Boy? Lover Boy's alive too?" Cato laughs hysterically, his good arm gripping the edge of the bed and tearing into the sheets. "You, me, and Lover Boy. Three tributes still alive. What kind of shit is this?"

Cato looks down at his brutalized arm, darts his huge eyes over to Peeta, and shoots back to Katniss. The two victors and their Victor.

And it's just too much.

"This isn't right. This isn't how the Games are played. There can only be one victor." The veins pulse on Cato's forehead, the muscles in his right arm spasming furiously. It is all out of his control.

"You did something, 12."

Nothing is in his control anymore. Nothing makes sense. Nothing is right.

Being alive. The_—it wasn't his—_crippled arm. The girl from 12 standing before him, hair in a neat braid. The girl who is in his way, has always been in his way. And now she wears his victor's crown and he is left with nothing.

It is all…just too much. And Cato snaps.

"Just what did you do, 12?" he screams. "Huh? WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO TO ME?"

The orderlies, having heard the commotion, push past Katniss to restrain the enraged blond boy. Cato has lost his mind, focusing all his fury on the one girl who has shown him up at every turn.

To her credit, Katniss keeps her gaze focused on Cato's crazed blue eyes and doesn't back away.

"Just you wait!" Cato's words lunge forward alongside his patchwork body, aiming for Katniss as the orderlies restrain him, his right arm dangling uselessly at his side as his left claws at the men who hold him back. One of the orderlies jab a needle into Cato's neck.

Someone must have gone to tell Haymitch what was happening, for he appears at her side. He is out of breath. "Let's get out of here, Katniss." He grabs a hold of her elbow. "You don't need to listen to this."

She pulls her elbow out of his grasp. "I'm not leaving Peeta unconscious and alone with Cato."

Haymitch isn't deterred. "He'll be fine, we can visit him in a little bit after the drug knocks out that Career."

"Why did they put the two of them in a room together? We have to get it switched—"

"I don't think you realize the gravity of the situation, sweetheart," he hisses beneath his breath. "Snow has the authority to do damn well whatever he pleases. Don't forget that." He grasps her arm again. "Come on, now. You aren't exactly helping things by being here."

Katniss looks back at Cato. His angry, angry, eyes are beginning to cloud from whatever drug the orderlies used, but the bloodlust in them doesn't dim. His arm is a mottled piece of dead weight by his side.

"I'm going to kill you, 12," he promises her, and Katniss doesn't doubt for a moment he'll try. A killer cannot stop being a killer, even when he is broken.

She recalls the Games and the way he hunted her down. Brutal, beautiful, broken Cato. He would slit her throat if given the chance, and she has had enough of him.

Over her shoulder, Katniss throws back her words like a cheap jab to heart. "You know, that would mean so much more if it was coming from someone who was actually still a threat."

The door closes before how he reacts, and the sound within its hush seems to say, _'I have no pity for you.'_

* * *

><p>Unexpected change can shatter a soul.<p>

And when there are only fragments, just what is left behind in the pieces?

* * *

><p><strong>Thank you to everyone who has taken the time to read this story. I want to especially thank those who take a moment to review, for nothing beats finding a 'review alert' email in my inbox. <strong>

**Until next time!**


	4. That

"Listen up. You're in trouble. Word is the Capitol's furious about you showing them up in the arena. The one thing they can't stand is being laughed at and they're the joke of Panem."

—_The Hunger Games,_ pgs. 356 - 357

**Convergence**

Chapter Four

The human body is a fragile, frail thing. It easily falls to disease and injury, with bones snapping as if little more than brittle twigs. Skin can tear, muscles can rip, and skulls can shatter. The body can be ravaged, twisted, manipulated, and changed from what it once was.

In comparison, the brain is domineering and durable. It can tolerate the trials of the body, and prevail against horrors done onto it. Gray matter in command—shifting to rise above the wrongs of the body that are born from persistent trauma and chronic change. The mind is more powerful.

Or is it?

In truth, it is neither the body nor the brain.

It is the heart that is strongest, if only given the chance to beat.

* * *

><p>The murderous contempt of a crippled eighteen year old boy hangs heavy in the hallway, and all of the medics feel it. It is murky, dark with anger and red with promised rage. They fear him, in some small way. They have seen what their patient has done and what he loves to do, and it causes them to rub their throats with paranoid hands. The hallway carries the echo of his screams, even though it has long gone quiet.<p>

Cato's life drives Snow's anger, and Snow's anger has become Cato's arm.

'_He is dangerous,' _the medics whisper among themselves. _'Too dangerous for Panem.' _

The life of the tribute from District 2 and the lives of his fellow victors are a testament to an unfortunate truth—_is it really so outlandish to save three lives from those condemned to die?—_not all of Panem is ready to face. The cushy Capitol medics want no part of an ugly lifestyle they cannot gloss over with scents and scalpels.

* * *

><p>Peeta awakens with Katniss's name on his lips and a vacancy beneath his knee. He doesn't have to be told to know his leg is gone, since his body knows instantly. How could it not? It is a glaring emptiness, his flesh and bone taking the form of oddity and horror housed in void space. Despite it—<em>the knowing—<em>Peeta could attest to the existence of a ghost of a limb.

Morbid curiosity drives him to be sure.

Peeta's fingers stretch, quivering, past his hip and down his thigh. His clumsy movements make it difficult to not catch his fingers in the blanket, but he manages, somehow, finally reaching his knee and with it, air. The empty gap is a chasm of space and panic. The blond trails his hand over the smooth nub of skin that marks the end of his leg, and thinks for a moment, '_I'm glad it's not my arm so I can still bake.' _And then his mind drops beyond the fallout point of his leg, and Peeta tries his best not to scream.

The boy has always been a gentleman, rolling his horror into a neat little ball and tucking it away instead of letting it rise.

It could be seconds or it could be hours—_they are all interchangeable anyway—_but the door creaks open and Peeta comes back to himself, acknowledging that not only is he in a hospital, but he is also alive. And he has never been more grateful to be alive with Katniss in the doorway and the way she is smiling just for him.

* * *

><p>"And that's the story?"<p>

"That's the story."

Peeta leans his head against the unyielding metal of the hospital headboard. "I'm not sure if I like everything about that story."

"Yeah, well, neither do I…" Katniss flits her eyes over to another bed and another blond and grimaces. "As if this wasn't complicated enough as it is."

"I thought it was you, Katniss."

"Me what?"

"I heard the medics, just before I knocked out. I heard them say to bring supplies and to hurry, that whoever it was didn't have much time left. And I thought it was you."

"Maybe it would have been better if it was me, so that way we wouldn't have to deal with him," she shifts in her chair, motioning towards the other side of the room.

Peeta looks at her with disapproval. "You can't mean that."

"No, I don't." She has the grace to look embarrassed. "But you didn't see him, Peeta. Cato was out of his mind. And he's somehow associated the mutts' damage to something _I _did."

"He's unstable," Peeta tells her. "You're lucky you didn't see everything he pulled in the arena. I wish I didn't."

"I saw enough of him." Katniss gets up from her chair, padding on silent feet to reach the side of Cato's bed. She studies the face of her rival, taking in the hard planes of his face and the cruelty embedded in his jaw. Cato's body is as still as it was when she found him in the Cornucopia, and she finds it difficult to draw her gaze away from the rise and fall of his chest.

The very beat of Cato's heart mocks her, and Katniss voices the question that will not leave her mind. "Why did he live, when so many others died?"

"Why did Prim get chosen, when so many had higher odds?" Peeta asks, as he tries to keep his thoughts off the empty space in his bed.

She doesn't answer him because she doesn't have an answer for that herself. The harder part of her heart murmurs, _'Maybe I should just kill him now and even up the odds.'_

Would it really be so heinous if she did? Cato wouldn't hesitate to do differently if their situations were reversed, and that was a fact. She already faced President Snow's anger because of her unwanted participation in helping Cato in the first place. Who knows? Maybe she'd finally score some points if she off'd him and the vindictive old man would leave her and Peeta alone.

'_As if…' _Katniss muses, but she can't shake the instinct of the Games. She has survived on guts, strength, and luck, beating out other tributes in what they might have lacked. And all of her instincts, fed by the violence, instruct her to get rid of the boy who will only continue to cause problems.

'_Who would miss him anyway? Not me,' _she truth, Katniss does not know all that much about Cato. She knows that he is vicious, loves to kill, relishes a fight, and expected to win. He may not have won, but not much else has changed. And she doesn't need to know more than that.

"Katniss…?" Peeta's voice filters through the room, and it makes her aware of the pound of blood in her ears and the way her nails are digging crescents into the rough skin of her palms.

"What?" She calls back to him, and considers for a moment if Peeta is capable of reading her mind. Katniss may be out of the arena, but its influence still surrounds her. The Games, the Capitol, President Snow—warping her thoughts with a twisted sense of survival she just can't seem to shake.

"You didn't do anything wrong, you know," Peeta says softly.

She tenses, wondering if Peeta Mellark really can read minds. _'No, Peeta. Wrong is considering the murder of a boy who can't even defend himself right now. Wrong is letting the Games change you so much that you can't separate then from now and all you do is think about what will keep you alive.'_

Peeta continues, "I mean with what you did with Cato. When you saw he was alive."

"I only created more problems for us by doing so," she tells him. _'But I am not a monster like he is. I'm not a killer. I'm not Cato.' _

"Yeah, it did," Peeta nods his head slowly and rubs his ruined leg. "But it doesn't mean that it was wrong."

Katniss crosses the room and returns to Peeta, leaving behind whatever murderous intentions she harbored at Cato's bedside. She highly doubts he will notice the extra weight.

"Aren't you going to ask me why?"

The blond looks at her simply. "No. You had whatever reasons you had. We just go forward from here. That's all there is to it."

Katniss wants to correct him, tell him that she didn't have any reasons at all. It just slipped out, worming words falling past the guard of an exhausted girl. Words are like lives—they can't be taken back once they're gone. But she doesn't tell him that.

"You are too good to me, Peeta."

When Katniss leaves, with the door shutting behind her and the light reflecting off her hair like a crown, Peeta realizes for the first time that being alive means that he has won the Games. The victory is a hollow one.

* * *

><p>Cato's second time waking up in the hospital bed is just as pleasurable as his first. Except this time there is no momentary escape from reality, there is no thought of victory, and there is no Clove. Instead, there is only the certainty of his mangled arm, and Brutus.<p>

"Hello, Third Place."

"Fuck you." Cato's rage, which has never truly left, flares at the jab. He pushes himself up and leans his back against the bed frame. _'You're still in control. Show him you've still got this.' _

"Testy, aren't we? Well, I can understand that. Probably would be too if I had just lost to the scumrats of 12," Brutus smirks, but his smile is cold. He wants the words to hurt, and they do.

Cato, who does not want anyone else to witness his humiliation, darts his eyes over to Peeta's empty bed, and Brutus notices.

"They took your roommate out about an hour ago to run some tests. Maybe he'll get started on baking you a get well cake, making you the official third member of Team Twelve," the older man tells him.

The blond twists the blue fleece blanket in effort to contain his anger, the calluses on his hand negating much of its softness. Cato is not one to hold in his emotions, but any interaction with Brutus requires whatever control he has. The victor is a dangerous man.

"What do you want?"

"Just to see how third place suits the would-be victor from District 2."

Cato's glare cuts as deep as his sword. "Then get out."

Brutus's laugh is patronizing. "Don't flatter yourself. As if you could really do anything to me." The muscular man reaches out with speed that is surprising for his frame and grips Cato's right arm, jerking it upward.

'_Son of a—!' _The color dribbles out of Cato's face instantly. Agony burns within his crippled arm as the muscles that remain are made to stretch beyond their limits. Cato bites his tongue in effort not to cry out, and tang of blood fills his mouth. He hopes he doesn't choke on it.

"All that training, for what? Those hours I spent mentoring you? A waste. Just look at you now." Brutus is cold, angry, and mean. "It would've been better if you died, rather than to return like this."

The older man drops the mangled arm, and Cato immediately tucks it back against his chest, a wounded bird with a wounded wing. "It's that girl from 12. She did this. She messed up the Games. I'm going to kill her—get her back for _this_."

"A tribute from District 2? Blaming his failures on a slum girl from 12? What a disgrace."

Pain begins to build behind his eyes, and Cato resists the urge to rub his temples. "It doesn't matter what you think of me—"

"No, that's where you're wrong. It doesn't matter now whether or not you kill the girl, it won't make you the winner of the Games, and it won't make you a true victor."

"Shut up. What do you know?"

Brutus leans forward, his eyes wicked. "I know if you kill the girl outside of the arena, it will be considered murder and not fair play. Can't go around killing people, Cato. That's not how the world works after the Hunger Games."

The pain in his head increases, climbing across the fleshy lobes of his brain. "That's the way I know best." Cato looks down at his ruined arm, and corrects himself. "The way I knew best."

"You still got one good arm. Train with that one," Brutus points with predatory laziness towards Cato's muscular left arm. "And see if you can strengthen up the other."

Cato laughs, though not out of humor. "Train left-handed? Most swordsmen are only good with one."

"And one good arm is all you have right now. Really want to let that girl show you up? You know, the one who saved your life?" Brutus's words are venom.

"What are you talking about?"

"Oh, you don't know? That's cute."

'_SavedSavedSaved_—_?' _The words don't compute right. "Explain yourself, Brutus, or I'll gut you."

The older man grins, revealing yellowed teeth that remind Cato of the mutts. It is a similarity that sends the muscles in his bad arm into a memory-induced spasm.

Brutus explains, with the same grin plastered all over his face,"12's the one that found you after your heart restarted. The Capitol declared you dead, and she goes back for something at the Cornucopia and finds you still breathing. And then she goes and says it for all of Panem to hear."

The pain in his head is beginning to pound at his brain and it's getting difficult to ignore as Cato attempts to make sense of the words. "Why the hell would she do that?"

Brutus shrugs, entertained. "Don't know, don't really care. Just knew that one minute we were discussing your casket and the next we're not. Snow's not too happy, though I'm sure you figured that out."

"No shit. As if this arm isn't enough of a sign of Snow's regard for me," Cato's words are dark. "And 12's even less deserving of victor status than I first thought. Doesn't she know how the Game is played?"

"I don't think the people from 12 are known for their…_education._"

Cato rubs one side of his temple in an attempt to soothe the pain in his head. "Doesn't matter. I owe her nothing."

"Well, you _do _owe her your life."

"The only thing I owe her is a sword through the heart. This…" Cato looks down at his crippled arm, continuing, "This is no life."

"So then train. Maybe one day you'll actually be useful in bringing honor to your district." Brutus stands, stretches, and pats Cato on the head as if he is an insolent child throwing a tantrum. The boy scowls, and his eyes flash for blood as he slams his mentor's mocking hand away.

"Temper, temper. It's what made people bet on you," Brutus pauses for a moment, putting emphasis on his words. "Too bad they bet wrong." And then he grins one last time, showing the teeth that Cato hates as he heads for the door.

On the back of Brutus's arm is a tattoo of a rose, and the blond can't recall if he has seen it on his mentor before. It is difficult to think with the pain in his brain.

"Headaches, Cato?" Brutus calls back innocently.

"Yeah."

"The medics warned that something like this could happen. From the couple of minutes your heart wasn't beating and with the lack of oxygen."

"Something like what?" Cato asks, though he almost doesn't want the answer.

"That it may not be just your body that was fucked up, Cato." Brutus is all smiles. "But your brain could be fucked up too."

Brutus laughs as he leaves, and within his laughter, Cato hears the taunting voice of Clove.

* * *

><p>Sinking into the softness of the plush couch, Katniss has difficulty comprehending the luxury of the furniture. A lifetime of the Seam has ruined her ability to appreciate the fancy aspects of Capitol life.<p>

"Aren't the couches just fabulous, darling?" Effie coos, dressed in a shocking shade of green. Katniss figures the that it is Effie's way of showing her District 12 pride, even though the color kind of hurts her eyes.

"It feels as if the cushions are trying to eat me."

"Oh come now, that's the arena talking! You've earned the right to enjoy this."

Katniss rests her cheek against the soft fabric and resists the urge to tell Effie otherwise. The older woman may not always say the right things, but she has always been honest in her own way. Katniss knows this, and bites her tongue.

Effie sits on the opposite side of the couch and elegantly flicks the remote to turn on the display screen. She is always about the movement and poise.

"So, tell me. How is our Peeta doing?"

"I think he's going to be fine," Katniss pauses, and then adds, "but…they had to take his leg."

The older woman lets out a small exclamation of joy, ignoring the second half of what Katniss said. "What superb news! Just in time for the after Games interview. I must start planning now and make sure that Cinna chooses something that shows you both off. Do you like red? Perhaps a rose pink? I bet you'd look darling in pink."

Katniss lets Effie dress her in every shade of the spectrum, but focuses more on the program running on the display screen. Caesar Flickman is animated as he shows clips from the Games. As he points to a particularly violent scene, Caesar tends to bob his head to the action, as if doing so would make him seem like more of a participant. Katniss wonders how excited he would be if he were actually in the arena. She doubts he would have the same reaction.

Effie fades to white noise as Katniss watches the broadcast. She is fixated by the faces of her fellow tributes that flash across the screen, as Caesar takes a red marker—_red for effect, for the blood split, you know—_and slashes an 'X' across the faces of the fallen. Sometimes the marker ink leaks and dribbles down in slow globs down their faces.

And with a click, Caesar Flickerman fades away while in the middle of yet another enthusiastic head bob. "I don't think it would be in your best interest to be watching stuff like this, sweetheart," Haymitch tells her, setting down the remote and keeping it away from Effie, who protests. She has always been a big Caesar fan, especially admiring his sense of fashion.

Haymitch sits on the armchair adjacent to Katniss, and reaches for a drink. "Everything go alright when you went back down at the hospital ward?"

Katniss remembers Cato's angry face and his mocking heart, and replies, "Yeah. It was quiet. Peeta says he looks forward to seeing you."

"Ah, excellent. We don't need anymore trouble than the trouble we've already got," Haymitch takes a long sip of his drink, but doesn't feel the burn. "Now about that interview…"

"What about it?" Katniss shifts on the couch and regrets it immediately as she sinks back into the cushion.

"I'm sure Katniss and Peeta will be just wonderful. _They _are the talk of the Capitol! And so are we!" Effie chimes in, her curls dancing in excitement.

"Yeah, well, you do realize that they won't be the only two up there."

"You mean that brute from 2 will be with them as well?"

"It makes sense," Katniss voices, "He is a victor too."

"But he wouldn't be if it wasn't for you! Don't let him steal your spotlight! You know how those Careers can be when they're on stage and—"

"Effie, I think that spotlight thievery is the least of our worries right now. If anything," Haymitch pauses to take another sip of his drink, "I would want them _out _of the spotlight."

"Haymitch! This is their moment! Just because you didn't live yours up doesn't mean they shouldn't be able to."

"By not living it up, I was allowed to live in the first place."

Katniss studies her mentor and asks, "Just what would you have us do?"

"There have been whispers starting in some of the districts. There has always been just one victor, but through your actions, Katniss, you managed to pull two more victors out with you. It _sparked _something, you see?"

The notion of sparking anything beyond a makeshift fire makes Katniss uncomfortable. She has never been one for attention. "I bet Snow just loves that."

"That's one word for it. You made the Capitol look bad. Showing them up, not once, but twice," Haymitch adds more liquor to his glass, continuing, "Some Districts have grasped onto to that. It's making them think."

"Surely President Snow cannot blame our victors for that! It's not as if they are openly going against the Capitol. And they cannot control what goes on in other Districts," Effie protests, for she is still a Capitol woman at heart.

"See now, they _started _it. That's the problem. Three victors? It has been long thought that anything beyond a sole victor would be unimaginable, but now there's three," Haymitch swirls in drink around in an action that betrays his nerves, "Three people came out, and the world didn't end. The Capitol couldn't do anything about it. It's what makes people start to think."

Quietly, Katniss meets Haymitch's gaze and asks again, "So what do I do?"

"Well, the Capitol can't directly touch you three right now without risking uprising in other Districts. It would look too suspicious. But it doesn't mean Snow won't find _another_ way to get to you _out _of the way. Just as long as the Capitol's hands look clean."

A stone settles in Katniss's stomach. "My family?"

"Potentially," Haymitch looks away from her, "Or an indirect way to get rid of you or another of the victors. Hard to tell what Snow is thinking."

"Is there anything to be done about it?" Effie's hands flutter nervously in the air as she talks.

"Well, the first step is using the interview to make it seem as if you weren't _actually _trying to go against the Capitol," he instructs to Katniss.

"I wasn't! I was just…"

"You were just a silly girl, unable to kill the boy from your District who has had you emotionally mixed up throughout the Games. You couldn't win if it meant living without the boy who so clearly loved you, not while you felt something in return for him."

The thought of voicing such a thing for all of Panem to hear makes Katniss feel queasy. She had been free with her kisses and her concerns while in the arena, but it was easier to push away the thoughts of eyes upon her when it already felt like she was so alone.

'_I know Peeta wasn't acting, and I did what I needed to do to survive. But to take that outside of the arena? _Katniss thinks, _'I care about Peeta. I want to protect him. Is that the same thing as love?' _

Effie, always direct and to the point, barges in on Katniss's thoughts. "Well, that's all fine and lovely. But what about that bully from District 2?"

"Yeah…how do I explain Cato?" '_Is there even an explanation for that?' _she wonders.

Haymitch pushes back his hair with his hands as he thinks. "That's where things get tricky. I can sell a love story, but Cato makes that difficult."

"Come on, Haymitch. There must be something you can think of," Effie says.

"Tell them…tell them that when you saw Cato, with his blond hair and blue eyes, it reminded you so much of Peeta," Haymitch thinks out loud.

"Anyone who watched the Games knows that the two of them are not alike at all," Katniss tells him flatly.

"They don't have to _be _alike! That's the not point," he sighs, frustrated. "In the interview, tell them that you saw the blond hair and blue eyes and immediately thought of Peeta. You imagined what would have happened if it _was _Peeta, still alive somewhere in that bloody carcass."

Haymitch glares at Katniss, who has rolled her eyes. "Listen. You tell them that you were so overwhelmed from your emotion that finding someone who resembled him was just too much. You thought about how if it _was _Peeta, still alive, and got so swept up you acted on pure instinct to save him."

Effie sighs happily. "Oh Haymitch, that's lovely."

"I think it's stupid," Katniss mutters.

"Well," Haymitch toasts her and says, "let's see you come up with something better."

She doesn't.

* * *

><p><em>Ding. <em>The elevator sounds softly, and the door opens for its occupants.

"Do you need anything, President Snow?"

President Snow adjusts the white rose on his lapel and dismisses the guard. "No, that will be all. I will return shortly."

The guard inclines his head at the request as Snow leaves the elevator. The elevator begins the ascent back up to main Capitol building, closing its doors and obscuring the sign that illuminates the basement floor.

The sign reads '_LABORATORY.' _

* * *

><p><strong>I spent some time outlining where I want this story to go, and I came up with a rough approximation of 30 - 40 chapters. I'm not one to rush things, and I love detail and build up. I hope the potential length isn't a problem!<strong>

**I also received a review from one anon asking how hearts can 'gurgle.' Since I can't PM an answer, I'll respond back here. I used 'gurgle' in the description for two very specific reasons. First off, 'gurgle' can be defined as "to express or pronounce with a broken, irregular, bubbling sound." The heart in reference to this fic has stopped, but then restarts. That restart is not a smooth one, causing it to initially be 'irregular' as it resumes functioning. The 'bubbling sound' can be attributed to the blood in the chambers of the heart that has begun to circulate again. Second, on a metaphoric level, the word 'gurgle' is typically associated with babies. By no means am I insinuating that Cato should be viewed as a baby, however, babies are one of the most iconic symbols of new life. When Cato's heart resumes beating, it brings him back into a world with a completely redefined place in life. He has failed at his purpose (winning the Games), and finds himself in a position in which he's not a true victor and he's not dead. I wouldn't go as far to say he's been 'reborn,' but it's definitely a new life for him to now try and deal with where he fits in. I hope that explanation helps, anon! **

**My warmest thanks to all who have taken the time to review previous chapters, and to those that will take a few moments to review this chapter. Feedback is a powerful motivator!  
><strong>


	5. It

"The exceptions are the kids from the wealthier districts, the volunteers, the ones who have been fed and trained throughout their lives for this moment."

-_The Hunger Games, _pg. 94

**Convergence**

Chapter Five

The appeal of reality television isn't tied specifically to its realism, but rather to the hook that it's a show. From the safety of seat cushions and couches, the viewers become part of the scandalous drama, but only just that.

The reality is the draw, and the show is the barrier. It separates the viewer from the ugly. The events are genuine, but exasperatingly not real because of one small showy word, tacked on at the end. It is a comfort, a safety—the little lie that keeps the actuality of it all away.

Close, but not too close. Exciting, but not dangerous. Real, but not real.

It's truthful to the extent a viewer can process the truth, and a show in all the rest.

* * *

><p>"You're beautiful."<p>

Katniss looks into the mirror, taking in her emaciated frame that is all bone and no substance. Raising a finger, she traces her hollow cheeks and the shadows framing her eyes. '_No amount of makeup and fancy paints can hide this,'_ Katniss thinks, but she is okay with that. '_For why should I hide it? Let them see.' _Haymitch wouldn't be happy, but she could live with that (or not).

"It's the dress, not me."

Cinna shakes his head slightly. "You don't see it, do you? What it is about you that draws people in."

She smooths the fabric down, a gesture that displays the nerves she'll never admit. "I've told you before that I'm not very likeable. I just want to get this over with and go back home."

"You've gotten their attention, Katniss, whether you want it or not."

"I don't want it," she tells him. Cinna already knows.

"Going back home won't stop it," he says, "not after—"

"Yeah, I know. Not after what happened."

Cinna reaches out his hand and draws Katniss over to elevated styling chair, indicating for her to sit. She does so without complaint, and Cinna fetches a fancy Capitol brush. He runs the brush through her loose, wavy hair and allows her time to collect her thoughts.

"Did you dress Peeta to match?"

Her stylist answers cautiously. "No, not this time."

"Why not? Didn't Haymitch tell you…?"

Cinna continues to run the brush through Katniss's hair, weighing his words before he answers. "He did. And I would have. I had planned what outfit for you to wear since the moment the Games began."

Katniss snorts. "Since the start? That's putting a lot of faith in the ending."

"When I said I would bet on you, it wasn't a joke."

"I thought you were just being nice to a girl on her way to die."

"No, I was being honest." Cinna's confidence is unnerving. He places more faith in her than she ever did in herself, seeing what she cannot. (Or will not).

"So why change your mind?"

"Dressing alike symbolizes a unity. It is a valuable tool for conveying the image of a couple," Cinna says carefully, "but it's not just a couple on stage tonight."

Katniss understands immediately. "Cato."

"Yes, exactly that," Cinna says softly.

"But why…?"

"If you two were dressed as a couple, it visibly alienates the victor from District 2," Cinna explains, "I thought it would be best to give the impression of a united front instead."

"You want to make it look like we're all on the same side?" Katniss's shimmer-glossed lips twitch at the corners from distaste.

"Well, aren't you?" Cinna asks, though his tone doesn't make it sound like a question.

"District 2's a Capitol lover, and Cato is no different. We'll never be on the same side," she shoots back.

Cinna, having finished with her hair, carries the expensive brush back over to its case. Placing it carefully inside, he lowers shut the lid and then rubs his hands together to rid them of stray strands.

"Things are always changing," he tells her, cryptic in his words, "I have learned not to count out anything as impossible." Cinna tips his head in her direction. "At least, not since meeting you."

Katniss ignores this, for Cinna is speaking with an undertone that she wants no part of. "I still don't understand. I thought we were following Haymitch's plan."

"Haymitch has always been a good strategist, but when it comes to the visual side of things?" Cinna gives an easy shrug. "That's all me, especially since I was given the privilege of styling all three of you. If you alienate District 2's victor, it doesn't exactly add strength to your story, does it?"

Cinna walks over to the styling chair that is next to Katniss, settling himself on the pricey leather seat. "How could you have supposedly lost yourself in the moment of Cato's similarity to Peeta if the differences are only emphasized on stage? No one's ever going to believe what you say."

"So what did you do then? Dress us all alike?"

"Oh, not at all. Peeta's in white."

"Why?"

"Peeta is idealistic, good-hearted, and loving. With Panem the way it is, people like him are rare. He doesn't let the darkness into his light."

Katniss stands up, approaching the floor mirror once again. She takes in her image, and all she sees is a tired girl trussed up in a dress that can't gloss over the memories she hides underneath.

"How did I end up in black?"

"For the spark."

Her stomach turns. '_Not that word again,' _she groans, and tells him, "Sparks are bright. This dress isn't."

"Twirl for me."

She does. The movement sends light reflecting off crystals that are sewn in secret within the fabric of the dress, waiting for the chance to shine. The design is of flames—_not that much of a surprise—_set in an image that hums around her body in an intricate pattern only Cinna could have had the patience to make.

"Opposite ends of the spectrum," he says, watching her twirl, "A spectrum that seems so far apart, but can never truly _be _apart. Even with two extremes, they can't exist without the other. It's balance of a different kind."

"I wonder what you think of me, then, to dress me like this."

"Panem is in darkness," Cinna says quietly, "By saving the lives of those two boys, you have struck the spark needed for its citizens to have a chance at lighting up the world."

"That's a big message for one dress to say."

Cinna looks at her for a moment, and says, "It's not the dress. It's the person."

"I doubt it. I've made too many mistakes for that." She glares at her reflection and at his words.

"Such as?"

Katniss returns, in all her made up elegance, to the stylist chair opposite Cinna. She hoists herself into the seat in a way that would make any Capitol citizen cringe from her blatant disregard of such finery. She refuses to meet Cinna's gaze, the words fighting to both come out and stay safe inside.

"Peeta."

"How so?"

"The truth is…we…how _I…_" She studies an invisible mark on the arm of the chair and struggles with the words. "For the Games..." she peters off miserably.

Cinna doesn't betray his thoughts as he asks, "And for Peeta, it isn't?"

Katniss nods. "He wasn't told."

"But you care for him, don't you?"

She fidgets, the question personal. "Peeta is…I want to protect him. His goodness…" her voice trails into silence.

Cinna reaches forward and takes Katniss's hands into his. His hands are warm and soft in a way hers will never be. For the first time, Katniss does not resent this Capitol quality.

"It's okay not to know, Katniss," He tells her, squeezing her hands. "And if that is the top mistake of yours, I think you are in the clear."

Katniss, eager to be off the confusing topic of Peeta, regains her voice again. "There's always Cato."

Cinna releases her hands and smirks. "Ah, yes. Our favorite Career. What of him?"

"That was a mistake. I only made things worse."

"How could saving a person's life be a mistake?"

"With Cato, it just is," Katniss crosses her arms, her expression stubborn. "If you were in that arena, as well as saw how he was in the hospital, you would know what I'm talking about, Cinna."

"Well, we are all entitled to our opinions, aren't we?"

"There's something not right about him. The way he loves to kill. His anger," she shakes her head.

"Growing up in District 2 isn't anything like District 12. You are the way you are because of that," Cinna studies her, recognizing the stubborn set of her chin. "Don't be so harsh to pass judgment on someone's life so quickly."

"I don't see how having someone like that around will make anything better."

"Maybe you're not meant to know that now."

Katniss blinks at him, and then laughs. "You've got to be kidding me."

"Maybe I'm just kidding myself."

"I think you are."

"Mistakes or not, you've always done the best you can," Cinna says, "You have made a statement, that's for sure, and it bothers the Capitol to distraction. Do you know how often that happens in the Games?"

She doesn't answer.

"Not very often," he tells her, rising from the chair, "Be proud of what you have done, even if some of your choices may have not given you the exact outcome you hoped for. Nothing is ever perfect."

A rap sounds on the door of the dressing room, and a moment later a Capitol Peacekeeper appears. In impeccable formality he announces, "We need for Victor Everdeen to come with us now."

Cinna turns to her. "Looks like it's time for the interview. You ready for this?"

"Like I have a choice," she says, smoothing her dress and its soft black fabric. She takes a look at Cinna, whose presence conveys more encouragement than words, and walks towards the door and the guard, her nerves over the interview blossoming in full force.

"Katniss," he murmurs, "there is always a choice."

Cinna doesn't know if she hears him and perhaps will never know. She doesn't respond to what he says, but instead calls back, asking, "If I'm in black, and Peeta's in white, what color is Cato?"

"I thought it would be interesting to see what side of the spectrum he'll inevitably fall on," Cinna's eyes dance. "So I dressed him in gray."

* * *

><p>The crowd is ravenous, the crowd is hungry, the crowd craves more. The Capitol citizens fidget in pricey plush seats, craning their necks at the stage and gesturing excitedly amongst one another. They fan themselves with their programs and discuss their favorite slaughter scenes from the 74th Games, critiquing the three who are still alive and weighing in with their own opinions. It is so easy to discuss what they would have done if in the Games, rather than considering if they actually had to <em>do <em>it.

Discussions of which tribute had the dreariest death and who was the most handsome fades away within the thunderous sound of applause. Caesar Flickerman has made his appearance, and he is not to be ignored. Waving his hands jovially at the crowd who has risen to give him a standing ovation, the smile of Caesar Flickerman seems large enough to rival the world.

With the eyes of Panem fixated on him, Caesar launches into his introduction. He feeds the excitement of the crowd with his own passionate statements of shock and awe, building the Games and its tributes up and up until the crowd have simply lost their minds. When Caesar calls for Katniss Everdeen, the audience is nearly beside themselves. They press up against each other, a wall of human bodies and speculation, in attempt to snag the best view they can of the true victor. They need a glimpse of the girl who confounds them, and in that confusion, makes them love her more.

When Katniss emerges under the stage light, the gems on her dress flaring and blinding, the crowd chants her name in a way that would make President Snow look away with polite disgust.

The blue haired host eagerly leads his top guest to the couch—_had to get rid of the loveseat for there's no room for three on that—_and settles onto his own throne. Caesar Flickerman in his element is a commanding force.

"One more cheer, ladies and gentlemen, for your leading lady of the 74th Hunger Games!" he cries, and the boom of the audience threatens to drown her. Katniss wishes the couch would engulf her instead.

When the applause eventually dies away—_something the crowd seems to be on the verge of starting back up for any small movement she makes—_Caesar turns his star victor and congratulations her on a fantastic victory. Katniss forces what she hopes is a natural smile and accepts the congratulations as graciously as she can, but nothing in the world will ever convince her that there is a victory in all of this.

Caesar is all warmth, excitement, and reaction as he asks her meaningless questions concerning if she had the chance to have any more lamb stew or if she knew her dress was the most dazzling piece she's worn yet. Katniss answers all of the questions and wishes for the support of Peeta.

And, finally, she gets it. Peeta, clad in a white suit and with a rose pinned to his lapel, emerges from the opposite side of the stage to the explosive reception of the crowd, and Katniss feels the stage quake beneath her heels. She stands as Peeta nears her, shaky in her high shoes, and does her best not to fall as Peeta tips her back for a long kiss. The audience almost riots from emotion, and Katniss thinks about how awkward she feels with all of their eyes so obviously on her.

They settle themselves on the couch made for three, and Caesar outdoes himself in his banter with Peeta. The two of them shine with their words, and the crowd loves them for it. Katniss thinks of home, where it doesn't matter if her thoughts are stuck at the back of her throat.

"And now, our final victor. District 2's very own Cato!"

Caesar calls for the third victor, and both Peeta and Katniss tense at the big blond boy's entrance. They alone recognize him for what he is—a powder keg waiting for the right spark to set him off.

'_Here we go,' _she thinks, and fights her reaction to hold her breath.

Cato appears on stage, dressed in a silver-gray suit and sharp black cufflinks, and Katniss could swear that some of the younger Capitol women swoon into a faint. _'Of all the ridiculous things!' _she scorns, but keeps a smile somehow plastered on her face. Somewhere in Panem, she is confident that Haymitch is giving her a thumbs up.

"Lovely to see you again, my boy!" Caesar greets him, reaching out to shake Cato's hand, and Katniss notices that Caesar deliberately goes for the left arm.

'_So he must know…' _she considers, though not surprised. Katniss's critical gaze observes the way Cato holds his crippled arm stiffly at his side. He almost seems to wince as he shakes Caesar's hand, the movement jostling his bad arm even when he shakes with his left.

When Caesar calls for them all to stand and shake hands, Katniss grudgingly offers her hand to Cato's right. For a moment, there is a pause as she issues her challenge. She looks him brashly in the face, and stubbornly leaves her hand extended for his bad arm to shake.

His blue eyes simmer with poorly suppressed rage, and Katniss wonders how smart it is to mess with explosives. Slowly, deliberately, and with obvious effort, Cato raises his right arm somewhat into the air to meet Katniss's extended hand. The fingers spasm, and his hand dully prods at hers. _'He can't close his hand around mine' _she realizes, before firmly doing so herself at the encouragement—_harassment?—_of Caesar.

The blond barely manages to mask a sneer as the cameras continue to roll, a trickle of sweat running down his face to mark his exertion. Within the grasp of her palm, Katniss can feel Cato's hand trembling, and she releases herself from the shake as quickly as she deems fit. His arm drops to his side and goes limp, and his eyes drill into hers as if to say, '_I will get you for this.' _

When Cato shakes hands with the second victor from 12, Peeta makes sure to shake the left.

* * *

><p>"Welcome, everyone, welcome! Now I must ask, are your seating accommodations satisfactory?" Caesar says.<p>

Peeta, closed to Caesar, nods his head in agreement. Katniss is wedged between the two boys, and wishes for room to inch away from the muscular blond boy. Cato is dangerously close for her survival instincts, and she does her best to keep their knees from touching. For his part, Cato ignores the discomfort of the accommodations and the throb that has settled in the muscles of his bad arm.

"Ah, good. Very good! This is a first, as you all know. Had to come up with a new seating arrangement! But that is what makes this year's Game unforgettable, isn't that right, everyone?" their host roars, and the crowd cheers their agreement and cameras snap away. _Click. Click. Click._

Caesar settles the crowd so he can be heard. "So, Cato, we haven't had a chance to talk with you just yet. How are you doing, post-Games?"

"Excellent, Caesar. As a victor of the Games, how could I be any less?" The blond lazily crosses his leg.

The host begins to bombard the District 2 victor with vapid questions, and Cato answers them all with charisma and ease. For Katniss, it is as if a veil has dropped to hide all of the bloodlust and anger that she knows boils within Cato's veins. Gone is the rage, the ugly words, and the killer tendencies. Cato shuts off his temper and charms the audience in true Career fashion.

'_The way he slips out of one character and into another, even after everything that has happened…' _Katniss considers as she tries to appear interested in the conversation. _'How could someone who was last screaming from a hospital bed the promise of murder suddenly switch to become such a likeable person once the cameras are rolling?' _

Cato laughs at something Caesar has said and the audience laughs along with him.

The taunting murderer and the captivating conversationalist all rolled into one very intimidating package. '_A Career no matter what happens in the Games,' _she muses, _'No wonder they usually win.'_

Caesar attempts to draw Katniss into the conversation as he delves deeper into questions none of the three wish to answer. "Now, Cato, as happy as we are to have you here with us, it looked for a moment like we lost you." Caesar nods his head over towards Katniss. "It's thanks to this young lady that we have you with us today."

From the corner of her eye, she sees Cato grit his teeth under the brilliance of an empty smile. "Yes, I suppose I do."

"I personally think it's fascinating. The two greatest rivals from the 74th Games, sitting here on this couch together! May I ask you, Katniss, how it was seeing your rival lying there at the Cornucopia?"

The crowd leans in closer. Katniss scrambles to say some semblance of an answer that won't end in further Capitol wrath. "I didn't know what to think, it all happened so fast. One minute I was fighting for my life and the next it was over…" Her voice lingers into silence.

"You poor dear, it was a very fast moving finale, wasn't it?" Caesar looks upon her with sad eyes. "Now I must ask you something, since I'm sure it's something we all want to know. What motivated you to help Cato after you realized he was still alive after the Games ended?"

_'Here we go, this question…! Caesar, I wish I had a better answer to give you. Or better yet, give myself.'_

"It was just so overwhelming. I thought Cato was dead, and then he wasn't." Katniss does her best to look the part of an innocent girl, and not one who has not been permanently ruined by the memories of gore and blood splatter. "And after everything that happened with Peeta…"

Caesar, sensing struggle, attempts to help her out. "Yes, we mustn't forget about the other boy on the couch with you! Can you tell us about that?"

"Peeta is someone important to me," Katniss manages a smile at the camera, "He is the best person I know." Peeta reaches out and holds Katniss's hand. The audience dissolves into happy sighs and some whistle or call for another kiss.

"Well, that is certainly clear! Just how important is he to you? Enough to die for, yes?"

"I couldn't imagine life without him. How could I win if it meant Peeta wouldn't be there with me?" she says, and Peeta raises her hand to his lips, gently kissing the back of it. His eyes are soft and warm and Katniss fights the urge to squirm. She doesn't know how she feels about Peeta, but she never wants to say anything that may end up hurting him.

Caesar dabs a freshly laundered handkerchief at his watering eyes. "And you, Peeta?"

"I love her. It's as simple as that," Peeta's words are sincere, and Katniss's guilt deepens, especially when Peeta pulls her in for another kiss. She feels Cato's gaze boring a hole into her exposed back, as if to say, '_I lost to them?' _

"So, Katniss, you had the Games won and Peeta safe. This brings me back to my original question—if you had your perfect ending, then why help Cato?"

Katniss thinks of Haymitch and what he told her. With nothing else to go on, she follows his advice and hopes she doesn't choke on her own tongue as she lies. Leaning forward—_a gesture she hopes comes off as honest, even though she's not—_she says, "It was the blond hair. I had almost lost Peeta. When I saw Cato again, for a moment, he looked just like him," she pauses for emphasis, "I imagined for a moment it _was _Peeta…as if I had really lost him…"

The audience has become one quivering mass of emotion and Katniss tries not to vomit from her lies. She is uncomfortably aware of the killer next to her, and she knows that he can tell she is lying.

Caesar senses her floundering once again, and tries to fill in the gaps for her. "So your emotions took over your actions! How romantic. Isn't that romantic, everyone?" The people in the crowd cry out their agreement, chanting the victors' names with enthusiasm.

"It is such a perfect ending. Or, well, almost," Caesar says, prompting Peeta to ask, "What do you mean?"

"Good question, young man! What I meant is it's just too bad that not more could be done for the injuries. These Games can be so violent, can't they?" Caesar scans them with pitying eyes. "Cato, how is that arm of yours doing?"

"It's been better, Caesar. But I'll get it back to form in no time. I'm still as determined as I was when we first talked, remember? A little thing like this won't hold me back for long," Cato says leisurely, but Katniss notices the way he uses his good arm to tug the sleeve further down his crippled arm, as if to hide it. _'Lies. From what I saw, your arm will never be the same again.' _

"I'm sure it will, my dear boy," the blue haired man plays the sympathetic role perfectly, as he does with any other role given to him. Turning to Peeta, Caesar continues, "And you, Peeta? From what I saw, your leg took a lot of damage."

Peeta's bright blue eyes hold no look of shame. "It was pretty bad! And it hurt like hell, let me tell you." He shrugs in acceptance and then begins to roll up one of his pant legs to show the demanding crowd.

"But it's not so bad now that I have a prosthetic," Peeta continues, revealing the metal limb. "Except for potential leg rust, I'm pretty much doing all the normal things I would have done before losing my leg."

Katniss, who has been wary of Cato's grip on sanity from the moment he entered the stadium, feels the exact moment Cato tenses next to her upon hearing the word "prosthetic."

'_Guess he didn't know,' _she thinks, and braces for eruption that will undoubtedly follow.

* * *

><p>It takes sheer will and the utmost restraint on Cato's part not to break Peeta's neck. '<em>Loverboy got a prosthetic, and I didn't? How is that even possible?' <em>The muscles in his crippled arm spasm and he wishes he were back in the arena so he could properly deal with the situation.

'_Isn't Snow angry with Loverboy too? He's the second victor! Why give him his leg and his life back?' _ Cato's thoughts careen through his brain and bounce down to feed his anger. A headache begins to grow between his eyes and it further distracts him from whatever it is Caesar Flickerman is prattling on about.

Next to him, Katniss shifts slightly away, as if she can tell that his mask of charisma and self-restraint is slipping. _'That's right, bitch. I'm fucking pissed off. You better watch yourself.' _She meets his gaze, and in her eyes, there is a warning that grates his pride.

'_What? Is Loverboy more of a man because he's not as much of a cripple as me? Huh? Think I'm harmless? Well, fuck you. Fuck. You.'_

"I know it may be difficult for you, but control yourself," she whispers from the corner of her mouth, "Don't make this worse."

"Worried I'm going to lose it, 12?" He hisses under his breath, and Cato feels his eyes go wide as his anger builds alongside his headache.

"What was that?" Caesar asks, his blue hair blindingly bright under the artificial light. It reminds Cato of the color that settles in the fingernail beds of corpses.

"Oh, Cato was just telling me how he hopes the crowd doesn't lose it from excitement since you were just about to play clips from the Game, Caesar," Katniss covers as smoothly as she can. Her smile is about as alive as the color of Caesar's hair.

'_Worried I'm going to do something that will cause trouble, 12? Well, you should be. You should worry about what I can do,'_ he thinks.

"Let's not keep them waiting then! Ladies and Gentlemen, let me take you back to the most captivating moments of this year's Hunger Games. Are you ready? Yes?" Caesar booms, and the lights dim to allow the images to be viewed as graphically as possible.

The screen comes down and the footage rolls. Capitol assistants weave in and out of the crowd, handing out refreshments the Capitol citizens greedily consume. Cato watches himself onscreen, his anger over the prosthetic momentary forgotten as he fixates on the image of himself from only weeks ago.

'_That is me. Strong, confident, powerful,' _he thinks, and the muscles in his right arm twitch in response. '_Whole.' _

The footage focuses primarily on the three victors. Cato watches himself kill tribute after tribute, and his blood sings with each sweep of his sword. _'This is how it should be. This is what the Games are all about. This is what a victor is!' _He glances over at the girl next to him, taking in her pale face and pursed lips, and thinks, _'You are a mistake.' _

Katniss feels him looking at her, and turns her head to face him. Cato is flushed, his eyes bright with excitement, pupils as dark and wide as old dried blood. She shakes her head, disgusted.

"You're getting off on this, aren't you? Watching yourself murder the others…as if once wasn't enough. You're sick," she whispers vehemently.

"Shut your mouth. You know nothing of the Games. You don't deserve to be up here," he shoots back. '_Don't look at me like that, slumsgirl. You have no idea of honor!' _

The footage zips by, too quickly for Cato's enjoyment. He can barely suppress the grin on his face as he watches footage-Katniss scale a tree in effort to get away from him. It allows Cato another chance to see the look of carefully controlled terror in her eyes and admire the desperate way she climbs the tree to escape.

"That's a good look for you, 12," he hisses, "Terror suits you."

Katniss waits until the nest of tracker jackers explodes, and replies, "Told you that you should have thrown the sword."

* * *

><p>Cato responds back to her jab in hopes of further provoking her, but Katniss ignores him. <em>'He's temperamental,' <em>she reminds herself, _'I can't afford an outburst with all of Panem watching.' _She looks at Peeta, who smiles back at her. _'I just can't.' _

The footage begins to near the end of the Game, and Katniss wishes she could shut it all out. The gasping last breath of the dying, the way blood pools around the base of a weapon, and the sound of surprised tributes, knowing that death is before them. Rue's death is one of the hardest. Katniss wishes she can curl up into herself and disappear—anything to avoid the moments she wishes she could wipe from memory. Watching the light die in Rue's eyes while Katniss sits dressed in finery is unbearable. The little girl dies in the dirt, no better than an animal, and the watching audience does nothing but applaud for one of the best death scenes of the year.

The rest of the video seems to speed by as Katniss does her best to block it out. The cheers and jeers of the audience, in addition to the obvious excitement and pride spilling from the blond next to her, is suffocating, and Katniss wishes for it all to be done.

When the mutts appear, she is grateful. _'This mockery is almost over,' _she thinks. She is more than ready to get away from the Capitol citizens who rate each of tributes' deaths without a care in the world.

The footage-mutts give chase in their lust for blood, pounding against the side of the Cornucopia, saliva leaking out from their jaws. Katniss can almost smell their putrid odor wafting down from the screen. Watching the fight on the Cornucopia is surreal, and when footage-Cato eventually falls, she feels just as empty as she did the first time around. There is no joy.

Next to her, Cato goes rigid as the sound of his footage-screams echo throughout the stadium. Risking another look at him, she finds Cato to be pale and tense. His eyes are wide again, but not from bloodlust. He is glued to the screen, but his gaze is just as empty as her heart.

From the safety of the couch, Cato is transported back to the agony of that night. He relives each tormented rip of flesh the mutts pull away from his body to devour as if it is happening again. His crippled arm shakes and spasms as the footage-mutts reach it onscreen with their hungry mouths. The screams never seem to end, and he resists the urge to clamp his hands over his ears to block them out.

The taunting murderer, the captivating conversationalist, and the broken boy, all in one fucked up package. _'Just how messed up are you?' _

"Not so fun to watch now, is it, Cato?" Katniss asks, but she is not mocking.

The blond pulls his eyes away from the screen and meets her flat gray gaze. His good arm reaches across his body to grip the bad one, perhaps in effort to suppress its quakes.

"Welcome to the real Hunger Games," Katniss tells him bitterly, and he doesn't answer. His eyes are already back on the screen, watching as footage-Cato begs footage-Katniss to end his suffering. _'I wonder if you regret that moment of weakness,' _she thinks, '_now that you're sitting next to the 'slumsrat' from 12 you never thought you'd see again in this life.' _

The lights burst back on, and for a moment, it is blinding. The screen rolls up and it's over. The brunette realizes that the Capitol doesn't show what happens after—_the berries, the pin, the heart—_and it's not a surprise. Cato is not the only one who dislikes looking weak.

* * *

><p>The interview is over. The crowd gives them another standing ovation as the three victors flash plastic smiles for the camera. Caesar finishes with some kind of fantastic punch line, his blue hair gleaming in the light, and the curtain falls to cover the stage.<p>

President Snow appears from behind stage and snags Peeta in a conversation. Peeta looks apologetically at Katniss as he accepts Snow's congratulations on a job well done.

Cato, right arm rigid at his side, displays no hint of his panic from earlier. He is handsome in his silver-gray suit, the perfect picture of a Career who has just won the Hunger Games. Some upper class Capitol citizens who have been allowed backstage offer their congratulations on his victory, but it is not the moment Cato has imagined for years.

"Fantastic job! You will make for a wonderful victor," one of the faceless individuals twitter at him from behind a program, but it feels more like an insult than praise.

'_I didn't win, I survived.'_ The difference stings his pride. It may not mean anything to another District tribute, but for Cato, it is almost unforgivable. Reliving his failure again, his ego and body wincing from each bite of the mutts, has only made that clearer. _'I was in the best shape of my life. I was unstoppable!' _the thoughts burn in his mind, '_to see all of that…and then be left with this? Like this?'_

Cato has lived for this moment of victory his entire life. It has been his goal, conferred onto him from his moment of birth. To bask in the triumph of winning the Games, soaking up the praise of Panem and bringing pride to his expectant District. It is everything.

And yet…and yet, it has turned into everything and nothing. The footage he took satisfaction in watching warped into a mockery, ending in his apparent defeat at the hands of the underdog girl.

'_I'm alive, but I didn't win. I didn't win. How could I have lost?' _It didn't seem possible to be alive and without victory at the same time. How could it?

He cannot stop himself or his rage, stalking up to Katniss Everdeen and gripping her shoulder with his left hand. _'It always comes back to her. She's always the reason why. She's always in the way!' _She tenses beneath his grasp, and turns around to face him.

"Can I help you?" she asks, and within her voice, he hears the sound of his own pleas for mercy. It sounds (_please) _and resounds (_please…)_ in his ears, haunting him.

"I owe you nothing," he spits out at her.

Her eyes regard him coldly. "That's fine. I want nothing from you."

"You think you're so clever. Winning the Games in a way no victor has before. No one thought you were going to win. No one! So just how did you do it, 12?"

"You'll never be able to understand. People like you only care about themselves."

"Don't think you're better than me. You're just some slumgirl from District 12. I'm from District 2. There is no comparison."

She shrugs off his hand as it digs painfully into her shoulder. "It must annoy the hell out of you that you had to share the stage with two people from 12, doesn't it, Cato?"

"It should have just been me. You two know nothing of the Games." _'You don't deserve it, 12. The victory means nothing to you…!' _

"Well, looks like that didn't matter in the end, doesn't it?"

"It _should _matter. I've trained my entire life for this—"

Katniss cuts him off. "And just look where it has gotten you."

Cato's words leave him as she continues, fed up and tired from everything that has happened. "The Games are over. And you have nothing." She drops into a mock curtsey. "Congratulations on your victory, Cato."

His crippled arm throbs from his shame as he watches her walk away from him without a backwards glance.

Watching her rejoin Peeta. Watching Snow grudgingly place the crown of victory atop her head. Watching her as the Victor, even when the Capitol Peacekeepers motion for him to join them for a crown of his own.

In this moment, Cato acknowledges the truth of her words.

It has always been victory or death. Not somewhere in between.

And in this place of gray, his life is nothing.

He is nothing.

* * *

><p>Reality is fascinating when only at a distance.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Hello, everyone! I hope you enjoyed this chapter. <strong>

**As far as updates go, I will try my best to have at least one chapter up a week. It's tough for me to promise more, though I wish I could. I work the glamorous 9-5 M-F full time gig, and I work part time some nights. At the same time, I'm also a full time graduate student going for my masters in Library and Information Science (I got my BA in English), so the nights I'm not working part time I'm usually in class or doing work for those classes.  
><strong>

**However, I am determined to see this through! Busy schedule or not :)  
><strong>

**Thank you to everyone who took a moment to review. Your words light up my day!  
><strong>


	6. Is

"He places the first around Peeta's brow with a smile. He's still smiling when he settles the second on my head, but his eyes, just inches from mine, are as unforgiving as a snake's."

—_The Hunger Games, _pg. 364

**Convergence**

Chapter Six

The connotations of winning vary. There are those who play to win, even if they're not familiar with the game. Others, the self-considered experts, should warrant caution. Then there are some who technically lose, but see themselves as winners in another regard (_and who are we to tell them otherwise?)._

But how far does victory go? When it is over—where one has won and the others are done—what comes next for those who have played?

* * *

><p>The Capitol center is crowded with gossipers' hearsay. Well dressed citizen turns to citizen, animated as they talk. Men wave their arms, the motions large, as they reenact their favorite kills. Their actions cause the women to twitter mindlessly, hands over rose-pink lips. The interview from the night before is the most sought after topic, and no Capitol citizen can stand to be left out of the loop.<p>

"What victors!" They say amongst themselves. "What a love story!"

The women of the Capitol (some men as well) exaggeratedly fan themselves with well-worn programs when the topic turns to the comely male victors. "Such attractive specimens!" they proclaim, and think, '_Only to become more handsome if they went under the knife.' _

Other citizens are more focused on the girl. Her decisions, her answers, her stance, her stare—it is all very perplexing in comparison to past victors. She has won them over, for it is easier to believe they love her rather than admit they can't understand her.

This, of course, does not stop them from arguing over who will get the privilege of victors' _private _company first. It is quite the hard fought topic. Which one of the three is most coveted? Which victor's company will garner the highest level of envy from Capitol peers?

Under careful analysis, the Capitol citizens deduce that the District 2 victor, with his delectable muscular body and brilliant blue eyes, is most certainly worthy of their attention. _'Remember how ruthless he was in the arena?' _The bloody memories alone elicit thrills of desire. _'Imagine how fun it will be to command such a monstrous boy in bed?' _

Other Capitol citizen wrinkle flawless noses in disgust at the enthusiasm over the Career. _'Don't forget his imperfect arm! The thought of touching that makes my skin positively crawl.' _These citizens much prefer the gentle boy from District 12, romanticizing him within skewed imaginations. _'I will own his devotion now! Won't that be more fun to see if we can?' _The citizens lusting after the Career shake their heads in repelled disbelief. _'How can you say that? He is from an Outer District!'_

Unnoticed off to the side, seated at the table of an outdoor café, Haymitch listens to the mindless chatter. Citizens discuss the victors as if they were nothing more than exotic creatures for purchase, and it makes his stomach knot with rage. When one citizen haughtily states, "I can't wait until after the Victor's tour. Then I can bed the baker boy before he beds his love," Haymitch almost loses it.

The discussion is the same as it is with any year of the Games—the Capitol citizens, in their desire for cheap titillation, reach with greedy hands and take what they want. But this time, this year, they are Haymitch's victors as much as they are the Capitol's (and it makes all the difference).

But Haymitch buys himself another drink and keeps his tongue stapled to the roof of his mouth. For within these perverted statements lies a crucial truth that he has been counting on.

The Capitol citizens love them, hate them, want them, fear them.

And within this morbid fascination is protection from President Snow, for if the Capitol adores them, Snow will not be in a position to destroy them. (Haymitch wishes that it wasn't just as easy for the Capitol citizens to ruin the victors in their own lusty expression of admiration and need).

It is a calculated trade off, a gamble for those who do not have much to bet. It is protection against an open assault from Snow, but at the cost of the Capitol citizens' lecherous need for the victors. Is either one really a lesser evil?

'_Protection,' _Haymitch chooses, _'at least for a little while.' _

Until Snow finds a way to bypass the adoration of Panem, that is. Haymitch doesn't doubt that Snow will come up with a solution for the three—the President is not one to tolerate risks and wildcards.

And for when that happens, the past District 12 victor has yet to find an answer as to what to do. He doesn't have a plan—not against the odds and a sort of grim certainty.

Haymitch senses the person behind him a precious moment before the stranger taps him on the shoulder.

"Haymitch Abernathy?" The stranger asks, causing him to scowl into the recesses of his half-finished drink.

"Can I help you?"

"I'd like it if you came with me." From the way in which the stranger speaks, Haymitch can tell it's not a request.

* * *

><p>"Do you need some help?"<p>

Peeta, struggling with the device that is his prosthetic leg, grunts out a response. The prosthetic is Capitol quality, though that doesn't make it any easier to figure out. "No," he tells her, "I think I got—success!"

The metal limb detaches from his stump, and Peeta leans back against the pillows on the bed in relief. The skin the metal has kissed all day is reddish and chaffed, serving as a continuous reminder of what he has lost during the Games. "Do you mind putting it over there on the nightstand, Katniss? Not too far."

"Sure," she replies, taking the prosthetic and placing it where Peeta has requested. "How has it been…using this now?"

"Better than not being able to walk at all," Peeta rubs the irritated skin absentmindedly. His hand always wants to extent further, to touch flesh and bone that no longer exist. It is only when he meets air that he remembers. "I'm getting used to it."

"That's true, at least you can still walk," she agrees, but Peeta notices that her face is sad.

"Don't worry about me. I'm fine. I just have to get used to it. No big deal," he tells her, but it is actually a big deal, a very big deal. Peeta doesn't have the heart to say it out loud, for then he would have to admit it both to himself and to her.

Katniss walks over to sit in the chair next to Peeta's bedside, indicating a nod towards the opposite side of the room. "When's your roommate coming back?"

"Not sure. One of the medics took him two or three hours ago and he hasn't been back since. I think they're working with his arm."

"Oh. Like how they've been helping you with the leg?"

Peeta glances ruefully at the metal limb on the nightstand next to him. "Pretty much. I'm glad you weren't around when I first got it. It was tough keeping my balance, but it's better now."

"Maybe you'll be a bit quieter in the woods now," she smirks as she talks, "You need all the help you can get for that."

"Thanks a lot," he says, and they both smile.

Katniss crosses one leg over the other, resting her elbows against the arms of the chair, getting comfortable. "How was it coming back here after the interview?" she asks, "Sharing the room with Cato, I mean."

Peeta leans back against the pillows, considering her question. "He was fine, I guess. Came back late, was all sweated up. He just took a shower and went to bed. Never said a word. Why?"

"Let's just say I know he wasn't in the best of moods. I was worried he'd do something to you, but Haymitch wouldn't let me come down to check. He said you could take care of yourself if something happened."

"Hm, and you don't think I could? Your confidence in me must be so high. That does remind me though," Peeta leans forward. "Just what were you two talking about last night, after the interview? I wanted to come over, but Snow didn't give me a chance to."

Katniss crosses her arms. "I should be asking you the same thing. You know Snow has it out for us! What did he want with you?"

"I asked you first!"

She resists the urge to roll her eyes. "Cato wanted the same thing he did last time."

"Which is?"

"Trying to figure out why he lost."

"You have to be careful around him, Katniss. He's not stable," Peeta tells her, "You made it out of the Games, so you have to have some sort of survival instinct. I don't know why you go out of your way to antagonize him."

Katniss's face tightens. "Easier said than done. I should just ignore him."

"So why don't you? At least be civil."

"I don't know. It's just when he's right there in front of me and screaming how he's going to kill me or that I didn't deserve to win…like it's his way of telling me that I don't deserve to be alive. That only he does. As if he's better."

"You know that's not true," Peeta pauses, and corrects himself. "Well, at least the being better part. But still, it's a safer bet if we were civil with him, whether we like him or not. That's my plan."

"I _do _know that. But it's tough when I can't forget how he really is, especially when he gets in my face. I mean, he's _happy _when he gets to kill someone. While we were fighting for our lives, he was having the time of his life."

"But that's how it always is for the Careers. They _want _to be in the Games."

"It doesn't make me like it any better. They train all of their lives for the Games, but what makes it so important? How could killing children make someone so happy? While I kill for survive, they do for pleasure."

"I don't know. We never cared about the why in the Games, only enough to get out of their way," Peeta says.

Katniss nods in agreement. "Exactly, except we're no longer in the arena. We've won the Games, it's over. But not for him, and it's difficult to remember that when he's in front of me, screaming he's going to kill me. Everything just comes together to make me so angry."

'_Cato's not the only one guilty of having a temper,' _she thinks. The similarity is not a happy one.

"Well, we'll be heading back home in a few days. Won't have to deal with him then, you know? That will be nice. To be home," Peeta says, reaching out to clasp one of her hands. The ease of the gesture lets Katniss know she is the only one uncomfortable with it. _'I have to speak with him soon. I have to figure this…whatever this is beyond the arena…out.'_

Peeta squeezes her hand as he continues to speak about home, unaware of her inner conflict. '_I owe it to him to be fair,' _she thinks. The pressure of his hand places pressure on her heart. She does her best to discreetly pull her hand away, crossing her arms in an attempt to look stern. "So you were going to tell me about Snow?"

"There's not that much to tell. He was just being oddly nice. Told me I did a good job and was sure that District 12 is proud of me."

"I don't trust him."

"Like I do?" Peeta says, and lowers his voice. "Katniss, I wanted to tell you last night. I saw—"

The _swish _of the door opening cuts him off mid-sentence. They both turn their heads and watch as the third and final victor returns to the room, a medic trailing behind him.

* * *

><p>Cato doesn't know which annoys him the most—the pain from the overexerted muscles in his right arm, the headache forming between his eyes, or finding Katniss and Peeta in the room when he returns. <em>'Perhaps all three annoyances can win,' <em>he considers bitterly, _'if that's how Games are played now.' _

The medic directs him over to the empty bed and shoves an IV needle into his arm. Cato watches as the fluid, mostly clear with a light tinge of green, rushes down the tube. It disappears into the narrow needle head, oozing in controlled drops out into his body. He can feel the fluid seeping into his veins, tingling slightly as it spreads.

"What's this?" he snaps.

"It's a liquid supplement designed to encourage muscle growth. It should help with some of the damage done to your arm, sir."

"How?"

The medic ignores him, scribbling down information on her clipboard. Without even looking up she walks over to the foot of the bed and consults the charts. Nodding her head, she finally looks up at her patient.

"Sir, I'll be right back," she says, and leaves the room without paying mind to the flurry of his protests. Cato eyes the IV, tempted to wretch the thing from his arm. He reconsiders this, however, when the potential of it actually helping comes to mind. _'If there's a chance it'll do something for me, what choice do I have?' _But something about it leaves a queasy feeling in his stomach, born from instinct rather than a side effect. _'Why would the Capitol help me now, when Snow left me to rot?' _

From across the sterile, white room, the sound of Peeta clearing his throat draws the Career's attention over to his fellow occupants.

"I'm not interrupting anything, am I, Loverboy?" Cato asks.

"No, not at all. How was your visit with the trainer?"

"Fine," Cato says stiffly. He remains as still as a day-old corpse, sitting off the side of the bed with his right arm lying across the length of his leg to accommodate the IV. The silence in the room is loud and quiet at the same time, and Cato swears he can hear the laughter of Clove within its depth.

When the medic knocks on the door before she lets herself back in, the sudden sound startles them all. Cato watches as Katniss automatically reaches for the bow she doesn't have and thinks, _'If you want to play as if we are still in the Games, I will happily go along with that and gut you like a rat.' _The appeal of such a thought is intoxicating, and it causes Clove's echoing laughter to grow a bit clearer in his ears.

The medic approaches his bedside and produces a small device. "This is for you, sir. It is a hand grip. Patients use it for the muscles in their arms and for building a stronger grip with their hands."

Cato accepts her offering, testing it out with his left arm. His muscular frame effortlessly bends the hand grip without difficulty.

The medic looks on in approval at her patient's compliance. "Use it to help the remaining muscles in your weaker arm grow stronger. It should be useful for you, since there was a large percentage of muscles that were unable to be salvaged."

The District 2 victor looks at the small hand grip skeptically. "This is going to help?"

"To a degree, sir. The scar tissue makes it more challenging, since it is not as flexible."

"How _much _of a degree?"

"That depends on the patient, sir. A previous victor from District 2 suggested that you use it."

'_A previous victor?' _The concept surprises him. "Which victor? Brutus?"

"I believe that was his name, sir. Now if you will excuse me…" The medic says, but her voice tells him that she is already focused past him, on a different name and on a different face. _'If I were the only victor, I would never get treated like this-!' _It is another testament of his new place.

As the medic makes her exit, Cato attempts to bend the hand grip with his crippled arm. The arm quakes from effort, causing his muscles to fall into the increasingly-familiar spasm that now plagues him. His hand took a large brunt of the damage and it shows through his struggle to bend it. Every little movement takes a colossal, shameful effort.

"Maybe there's a different hand grip you can start off with," Peeta says as he tries again, "No offense, and I don't mean this in a bad way, but that seems a little difficult for someone who's recovering to start off with."

Cato's pride is immediately offended. "I didn't realize you were a medic, Loverboy."

"I'm not. I'm just saying."

"Well, then don't say," Cato hisses.

Peeta sighs and turns back to Katniss. Cato ignores them both, concentrating his efforts on the small hand grip resting in his battered, lumpy palm. How could such a simple task become so challenging?

The effort he expends to bend the grip is more than he feels comfortable admitting. Sweat beads on his forehead as his arm shakes, struggling to obey. _'I can do this. This is nothing.'_ But it's not and he can't and his body won't comply.

'_This is so easy. This should be so easy! Why won't…'_ Cato grits his teeth as frustration swarms up, each second passing to add another small sting to his self-confidence. _'Why can't I do this?' _

Within the fifteen minutes that pass, Cato is only able to bend the hand grip approximately four and a half times before the muscles are spasming too much for him to control. And with this failure brings a fresh bought of anger and nerves. _'Screw this. This isn't help. It's just Brutus's idea of humiliation!' _With his left arm, Cato hurls the hand grip in a colorful expression about how he feels about it and himself. The palm-sized device catapults to the tile floor and skids across the room, gliding under Peeta's bed and stopping near the chair Katniss sits in.

The quiet conversation between the two of them abruptly halts as they look from the hand grip to Cato and then back to the hand grip again.

"Dropped something?" Katniss says. She leans her arm down to pick it up and examines the device. Turning it over in her hands, she squeezes the hand grip together without difficultly. Cato watches the hand grip bend, and pretends the lick of jealously he feels within his gut doesn't exist, for he will never be jealous of a girl from the Seam.

"Not anything I'll miss."

"Oh?"

"It's useless to me."

"Okay then," she says, slipping the hand grip into the pocket of her jacket. "I'll keep it, if you don't want it."

'_What the hell!'_ Her happy acquisition of the grip startles him, and he suddenly wants it back."What do you need something like that for, 12?"

"It strengthens muscles in the arms, right? It'll be helpful for archery."

As he watches her pocket the grip, Cato feels a sense of regret for its loss. Training with the hand grip may have gotten the better of his temper, but he didn't want to give it up. Not really. But his tattered threads of pride flare up, preventing him from demanding it back. Asking Katniss to return it after claiming it was useless, well, that would be admitting to 12 that he is wrong, and he hasn't fallen far enough for that.

'_Damn…what do I do now? I need…I need to do something. I can't stay like this forever.' _The thought is suffocatingly unbearable.

The revelation of his place in the world still smarts, despairingly so. He lacks the victor's crown atop his head and he isn't a body buried in a casket. His District isn't slapping him on the back for his win nor are they drinking to his poor, dead honor. In fact, Cato isn't sure what they think of him at all. No Career has returned back from the Games the way he has. Is District 2 proud of him? Or are they ashamed? Are they angry? He doesn't know and won't know until he returns back home to face whatever is there to meet him.

For the very first time in a long time, no one is there to help. He is alone in all of this.

Cato, the ideal Career. The boy who has always been the top contender, the best in the class, the most sought after, the most prized, and the most revered. The best of the best. "The tribute," those from District 2 would say, "whom the odds cannot be any better!"

It is only after the interview that Cato realizes having the best odds does not necessarily mean they will fall in his favor. Sometimes, despite all of his training, the sacrifices, and the coveted dreams, the odds will favor a lean Seam girl, no matter what he does.

The odds will beat him instead.

Nothing is a guarantee, and acknowledging this is a most bitter pill to swallow.

"Not so loud," he hears Katniss whisper to Peeta from across the room. Her eyes flicker over to meet his and it snaps him back to present. Cato has never been one to sit and think for long. He has always about movement and action, reacting rather than reconsidering.

"Trading secrets over there?"

Katniss maintains her eye contact. "Not at all."

"No, it's not a secret. Cato, you might as well hear this too. You're a victor like us, after all," Peeta says.

The girl sitting next to him hesitates. "Are you sure that's smart, Peeta?" she asks as Cato bristles. _'That's right. Don't trust me, 12. I'll stab you through the back and then again through the heart before you even have a chance to scream.' _He is well aware killing Katniss now won't make him the victor—_it is regrettably too late for that now—_ but it certainly would make him feel better about the whole mess.

Peeta shrugs his shoulders. "It doesn't really make much of a difference if he hears it or not." Katniss's stance doesn't relax, and Cato can tell that she doesn't agree. She doesn't protest again.

"I don't know if you two noticed (since you were too busy at each others' throats), but there was a woman at the interview last night, off to the side of the stadium. She had on a dress with the pattern of flames."

"Flames? Like me?"

"Yes," Peeta says grimly. "The only reason I noticed her is because the Peacekeepers were dragging the woman away."

Katniss's closed expression doesn't change. "What?"

"It was difficult to hear, but I think she was shouting something," he pauses, closing his eyes momentarily as he struggles to recall it. "I think…I think she was saying 'Down with the Capitol.'"

Cato can't stop the snort of laughter that escapes from him. "That's awesome. Really is. What did you two do? Start a rebellion?" _'First three victors, and now this? Panem has really gone to the dogs.'_

"It's not funny," Katniss fires back. "Watch what you say, _both _of you, we don't need more trouble with Snow."

"I wish I was kidding, but I'm not. The Peacekeepers hauled her out of the stadium before she attracted more attention, and who knows what after that?"

"They probably killed her," Cato says gleefully. The death of any girl dressed in flames mollifies his pride and helps to turn this upside down world a little bit more right.

Katniss looks disgusted as she tells him, "Is killing the only thing you think about?"

"That depends. It is if I'm killing you." Cato feels another headache beginning to brew within his brain, and tries to shove the pain back. The buzz of Clove's laughter returns with his temper.

Peeta looks from Katniss to Cato, his patience already worn thin from more important issues that doesn't include the two of them fighting. "Stop it, the both of you. We have bigger problems here than whatever hang-ups you both have with each other. The Games are over, so let it go!" Peeta's voice is uncharacteristically harsh, and it makes the others look at him in surprise.

"Now, as I was saying, we can only assume Snow's not going to happy about this. Well, not that he's happy anyway, but still," the District 12 boy runs a hand through his hair as he thinks. "If we want to live, we don't need to give Snow another reason to go after us. We have to be careful."

Katniss doesn't stay long after that. When Peeta pulls her into a kiss, Cato realizes from her body language that she's not nearly as comfortable as the boy she's kissing is. She is awkward and stiff, and it's not from embarrassment. Studying her form, it connects in Cato's mind. _'12's playing you for a fool, is she now, Loverboy?' _

* * *

><p>In the silence that follows Katniss's leave, Peeta tends to the irritated skin of his amputated limb with aloe cream. The cream takes away some of the sting, but it can never replace the leg. Once finished, he replaces the bottle on the nightstand, right next to the prosthetic. Together, they serve as a warning to the inevitable hazards that befall those who play the Game.<p>

Leaning back against his pillow, the blond closes his tired eyes. He hasn't slept well since the day Effie Trinket drew his name from the bowl, and he doesn't expect that to change anytime soon. Not with the phantom pain that throbs below his knee and the hint of rebellion in the air.

'_The woman dressed in flames…was she trying to look like Katniss? What was she trying to do?' _

Snow would have no problem punishing Katniss for it, even though she had nothing to do with the woman.

'_Could Haymitch be right? Are there whispers of rebellion?' _After so many long years under the thumb of the Capitol, is difficult for Peeta to imagine that anyone would stand up and fight for change. District 12 has always been the least favored of all Panem's Districts. He is used to the hard life within slums and all of the hard work that came with it.

'_No one from District 12, or the other outlying Districts, has the ability to rise up like that. We are just barely making it day to day. And the richer Districts have no reason to rebel, not when they're pampered by the Capitol. So is the middle Districts? Do they even care? Or is this just an isolated incident?' _

"Man, she has you so good." Cato's snarky voice breaks Peeta from his concentration and causes his thoughts to scatter to the wind.

"What?"

From across the room, Cato rests in a similar position against the backboard of his bed. The IV is still connected to his body, dripping the tinged green fluid in steady drops. The color is reminiscent of fungus and dead things.

"12. Do you really believe she loves you?"

"I know she does."

Cato's expression is smug. "I hope I'm there when you figure it out yourself. I can use a good laugh."

"Shut up, Cato. You don't know what you're talking about." Peeta doesn't let the venomous poison of the brutal boy seep in, though some unacknowledged part of his heart goes still at his words.

"I don't know why you care so much. She just used you to win, and that's what pisses me off the most. Well, not for you, really, but more for me. She wouldn't have gotten half the sponsors she did without using you for sympathy, and I could have killed her without a problem."

As he speaks, Cato's eyes glow with a malicious, eager light, and it causes Peeta to once again question the Career's grip on his sanity. "I told you, shut up. And if you talk about Katniss like that again, I'll make sure you regret it."

"You don't have it in you, Loverboy."

"You doubted that Katniss would win. And she beat you, didn't she? In fact, you wouldn't be here if it weren't for her. Don't forget that, Cato."

The Career doesn't even flinch. "And you would be?"

"Honestly? No."

"Damn right. You wouldn't have made it past the Cornucopia if it weren't for your connection to her. I should have just cut you down then."

"Katniss would have won anyway. She would have beaten you, even if I died. She would have won, and we would have lost," Peeta says adamantly.

"Not unless I killed her first."

"But you didn't. You didn't kill her. And all three of us won anyway, so what does it matter?"

Cato's haughty expression changes to astonishment. "You must crazy, Loverboy. We didn't win at all. We lost to her!"

Peeta bites back a retort regarding who the crazy one in the room is. Unlike Katniss, he has a better hold on both his tongue and his temper. As much as Peeta dislikes the District 2 boy, he's smart enough not to bait him. Setting Cato off on a tantrum will not help their cause with Snow, and that is most important right now.

"I don't know what you're talking about. We're all victors."

"But she's the _real _victor," Cato spits out the word _'real' _as if it has come burning up his esophagus.

"Real?" Peeta questions, but then understands. When it was announced that two victors could no longer win, Katniss could have killed him without much problem—in fact, he had begged her to do so. And by all rights, Cato should have been left to die in the dirt, mauled and maimed by the mutts. They should both be dead, if only Katniss had played the Games in the way they are meant to be played.

"You're not a victor, Loverboy, just as I'm not. _You lost just like me." _

"Who cares?"

Cato pauses, brought up short from what Peeta has said. "Who cares? What do you mean, who cares? How can you not care?"

"I'm still alive, so what does it matter?"

The Career looks as if he has swallowed a hot coal. His mouth opens and closes as he stares at Peeta with a look of utter disbelief. "What does it _matter? _You lost the Hunger Games!"

Peeta speaks slowly, as if to explaining to a small child, "I never cared about winning. In fact, I accepted that I would probably die. But I didn't, and I'm here, and I have my life."

"How could you play the Games and not care about winning? Is it possible for you to be even more stupid than I thought?"

"I'm not stupid at all. I'm alive, so why should winning be so important now?"

"Winning the Games _is _everything."

"Not to me."

Cato looks at Peeta, incredulity stark in his eyes, as if he has no idea of what to make of such a statement. On some level, Peeta realizes that Cato probably doesn't. _'District 2 isn't like District 12…not at all.'_

"That fluid in the IV doesn't look right. I wouldn't leave it in," Peeta tells him, hoping to distract the other boy from debating with him further. _'Don't want to set off a fuse…' _

"Fuck you, Loverboy."

Cato pulls the IV out anyway and lets the needle hang. Whatever green fluid is left goes_ drip drip drip _onto to the floor and runs down across the tile. From a distance, it looks like vomit.

* * *

><p>The Capitol Crier has front page headlines plastered with news of last night's interview. Promising colorful photos with the most up-to-date information about the victors (as opposed to any other paltry newspaper), the Crier reigns supreme.<p>

A pair of well-kept, soft hands grips his daily copy of the newspaper, the man's mouth twisting into a displeased frown as he studies the front page image.

Gracing the cover is a photograph of all three of the victors—_if you can call all three of them that—_dressed in their finery. The photo captures Katniss with her face half turned, her eyes warily watching the muscular blond boy next to her. Cato is also partially turned to face her, his mouth opened slightly as if he is just about to tell her something. The final victor, the boy from District 12, stares straight ahead at the camera. While the other two are wrapped up trading barbs, Peeta grins, oblivious, as the camera snapped.

President Snow looks at the image a long time before making a crease down the page. He slowly rips the newspaper photo and enjoys how the paper makes a noise as it splits. It almost sounds like a scream.

Along the crease he tears until he has two separate pieces—two halves of a whole that together once made up a whole photograph. One hand holds the image of Katniss and Cato, who are more bothered by each other than to give their full attention to the camera. President Snow crumbles up their image and lets it fall, the paper bouncing as it hits the ground. He then steps on the crumbled photograph with his expensive District 1 designer shoes and destroys the paper with his heel.

Once finished, President Snow studies the image of the third victor, of Peeta. It is the only piece of the photograph that still remains in his hands. And then, he smiles.

* * *

><p>When it comes to winning, it would be unwise to overlook the one who waits for the finale to fall. He already plans to craft his own encore.<p>

Sometimes, it's the players who are left that matter more than that actual outcome.

* * *

><p><strong>Hello, all! I hope you enjoyed reading another weekly update of this story. <strong>

**Whenever I sit down to write this fic, I usually blast Florence + the Machine's "No light, No light." The song, or at least the chorus, reminds me so much of the Cato x Katniss pairing (and the canon Peeta x Katniss in the books). If anyone else has listened to this song, what do you think? Or is it just my imagination?  
><strong>

**Thank you to everyone who has taken the time to read this story, especially to those who have left a review. They truly make my day a little bit brighter!  
><strong>


	7. Possible

"I only know that I feel like I've been lying to someone who trusts me. Or more accurately, to two people. I've been getting away with it up to this point because of the Games. But there will be no Games to hide behind back home."

—_The Hunger Games, _pg. 371

**Convergence**

Chapter Seven

Why is the heart so important? What shapes the notion of a heart for one person, yet allows it to be so different for another?

The heart, as it commands the flow and the beat and the pulse of it all, should be the master of blood. So when it comes time to bleed, why is the mighty heart the most vulnerable?

What about the heart makes one person sympathetic, and the other cruel? From where does it draw its strength?

The emotional, loving, fickle heart.

There is always a fragile place that can send the walls coming on down.

* * *

><p>"Katniss, do you love me?"<p>

This is the way he asks her—softly, unabashed, and shockingly straightforward. No lead up, no pretense. Just honestly between the two of them, as if he were asking what she wanted to have for dinner or if she was excited to be going home in a few days. Low, unhurried, and calm is Peeta at his most basic level.

'_How did we even get here?' _

It had been as uneventful a day as could be expected while housed within the walls of the Capitol. The two had spent their time prepping with Cinna on what to wear and how to act on the train ride back home. Cinna had wisely decided in advance to have Cato scheduled for his own appointment later on.

"Don't need a brawl," Cinna had said, looking pointedly at Katniss. She didn't even bother to protest the insinuated comment, shrugging it off instead.

They both spent the morning as Cinna's fashionable playthings without any particular snares. Effie had later joined them to provide her expert advice, despite Cinna's not-so-veiled hints that it was unnecessary. She fussed around them, a mother hen with her two unanticipated chicks, clucking at Cinna and doing her very best to make them look enviable by the Capitol.

"Wear pink!" Effie told her, even after Katniss declined to be the type that would wear the color.

Effie attempted to bully her into submission, but Peeta clasped her around the wrist and pulled her into the chair he sat in.

"Katniss doesn't have to wear expensive dresses or the color pink to be pretty," he said, and kissed her. For her part, Katniss fought the urge to stiffen up as the guilt threatened to overwhelm her. '_I have to speak with him. It isn't fair to him if I don't know what I want.'_

Effie, never one for a filter, said, "Katniss, dear, you're as stiff as one of Haymitch's ratty old suits. Do try to remember that you're supposed to love this boy once the cameras are on you."

It is said innocently enough. But she felt a shift within the boy beneath her as soon as the sentence left Effie's painted mouth. His eyes flickered with warmth but his mind far away, as if he had remembered something that she wasn't privy to. As she got up from his lap, Peeta didn't stop her. He was more subdued, and it put Katniss on edge.

Once Cinna and Effie left, Peeta asked the question that has plagued her since she realized Peeta wasn't acting for the Capitol. It has never been the problem of whether Katniss loves Peeta, because she has since the moment the burnt loaf hit the ground. _'But what kind of love is it?'_

It is a matter Peeta desperately wants confirmation in as he sits in his chair, and he asks it as a man who does not expect any other answer than yes.

'"_Do you love me?" _It is the one question that can ravage and obliterate her nerves. And then it connects. _'This is going to happen. Now. Right now.' _

"Katniss?' he prompts when she doesn't answer, but his voice sounds slightly far away as it gets sucked down within the chasm of her silence.

"Why do you ask?" Her own voice is strained and doesn't match with her quiet demeanor. She wants to buy time and think and plan and reason another way to bring this conversation up and convey how she feels without hurting Peeta. The idea of Peeta getting hurt is almost unbearable, the boy is too good and she owes him too much. She just wants time and more time. Time will let her sort these stubborn feelings and figure things out and deal with a part of her heart that has accepted a person beyond her family and Gale, which makes it dangerous, so very dangerous.

Another part of herself struggles to articulate how she feels—_B__e honest! Be honest! This is your chance!—_and rationalizes that keeping herself safe isn't keeping Peeta safe, and isn't keeping Peeta safe more important?

"Katniss?" his brow furrows. "Don't you love me?"

"I—I…"

The look he is giving her is imploring and innocent, even though lines are appearing across his forehead as he realizes she is taking too long to answer.

"Kat…niss?"

'_Don't lie to the Boy with the Bread. Don't lie don't lie don't lie. Speak!' _

"I—I don't know," she whispers, the words leaving her mortifyingly exposed as they drop into the air as if suspended from a hangman's noose.

Peeta jerks his head back as if she slapped him, and Katniss forgets for a moment that she hasn't.

"Peeta, I—"

"You don't know?" The way his lips form the words is heartbreakingly slow, spoken so softly she almost doesn't hear them.

"I—I wanted to tell you."

"Tell me what?"

"I didn't know at first, about you. That you were being honest with everything. In the arena, how you—I thought Haymitch had spoken with you before the Games. I mean, the plan—"

"The…plan?"

Katniss's stomach tightens. _'Damn you, Haymitch. You never told him! Why didn't you tell him?'_

"I originally thought you knew, and then it became real later on," she says robotically, her mind trying to catch up with the situation, "We were supposed to act like a couple. Haymitch said it would help us get sponsors, to survive! I thought he told you…" her voice catches, "I thought he told you."

"So it was all fake? You? Us? It wasn't real?" Peeta pauses as another thought strikes him, "Do you even _like _me, Katniss?"

Her mouth drops along with her heart. "Of course I do! I care about you, Peeta, I owe you so much. I wanted to protect you—"

"But you don't love me."

Her jaw locks, and she finds it hard to answer.

"Katniss," he says tonelessly, "it's a really simple question. And I know you. God, I spent years watching you like an idiot. You always know yourself."

"I've been trying to figure it out. It was just supposed to be for the Games, but I'm not sure—"

"Figure it out, huh? While I sat here and thought everything was fine. Thought I'd be returning home with the woman I love and who loves me. And now…"

"Peeta, I _care _about you. I didn't want to lie, not after I realized you weren't. I just didn't know how to tell you—"

Peeta laughs, but Katniss can feel the ice within the sound. Her gut twists, and Katniss has never felt more alone with this alien version of Peeta who sits before her.

She continues, saying, "I'm not good with love. Maybe I do, but I…I just don't want to lie to you. Not if I'm not sure. Please, don't…"

"What?"

"Please don't hate me."

Peeta stares at her. "_Hate you? _I love you!" He shakes his head, bringing a hand up to massage his temples. "So what are we supposed to do now? Wait until you figure out your feelings? Figure out what's real and what is entertainment for the Capitol?"

She opens her mouth to say something, but realizes she has nothing to say that would make this situation better.

When she doesn't answer, Peeta laughs again. "Oh hell," he says, "he was right."

"Who was right?"

"Does it even matter?"

"What did this person say to you, Peeta?" Fire burns up her veins, chasing away her heartache. Anger, temper, purpose. Anything to drag her from what she's feeling watching Peeta like this.

"That's not the point. I don't care what he said, not now."

"Peeta…" She reaches to place a hand on his shoulder, as if touching him will return him back from this isolated, monotone human being she has never seen before. Before her hand reaches him, Peeta jerks away abruptly. In his movement, she feels a sense of loss.

"I need some time to think, and I can't do that if you're here."

Katniss takes the hint. "I'll go then."

"Katniss?"

She stops. "Yes?"

"Were you ever going to actually tell me?"

"I wanted to. I just didn't know how."

He offers her a lopsided, sad smile. "Next time, if you have something to say, please don't wait as long to say it?"

She manages a nod.

"I guess I'll see you later then," he says. "Goodbye, Katniss."

"Goodbye, Peeta," she whispers, and her heart breaks, just a bit.

* * *

><p>Katniss leaves the room in turmoil. <em>'Did that really happen? Does he hate me now?' <em>The thought of Peeta pulling away from her, after everything they have been through, is a harsh validation of what she assumed would happen once she told him. _'Did I just lose the one person who can actually understand what it means to survive the 74th Games?'_

What she forgets, however, is that there's not only one person who fits that description. There's actually two. And as she exits the room, closing the door behind her with a solid _thud, _she comes face to face with the smiling, eavesdropping Career.

Cato looks happier than he has been in a while, leaning back against the wall. His eyes are filled with playful spite.

"Did I miss the show?" he asks, and Katniss realizes that he's heard some, if not all, of a very personal conversation from the other side of the door.

"You sure gave it to Loverboy. Broke his soft heart, didn't you, 12?" Cocky Cato is back, a side to him she hasn't seen since before the finale at the Cornucopia.

Cato looks so at ease, so comfortable to be back in a position he knows all too well. Finally, he has gotten something over the Girl on Fire. His world, dosed in obscurity, has left him without his strength and identity. But here, in this mess of Katniss's pain, he has found a foothold. And he climbs, testing his weight and reestablishing some sense of self—familiarity in an unfamiliar world. He has beaten Katniss, and any victory, no matter how small, gives back something he has lost.

It is infuriating.

"Shut your mouth, Cato. I don't need to hear this from you!"

"Do I care what you need? This is fun."

"You think it's fun to listen to people get hurt? That's right, I must have forgotten for a moment that I'm speaking with _you_. Come to think of it, why _am _I speaking with you anyway? I don't need this." Katniss turns from him, walking away.

"Should have just let him die during the Games. If I stuck a sword through his heart, it probably would have hurt less than the shit you just pulled on him."

His eager, lofty words aggravate her control even further. Against better judgment, she spins back around and stalks over to him. Raising her fist, she swings a wild punch aimed for the wide grin on his face. _'Maybe if I break all of your teeth it will help you keep your mouth shut!'_

Cato, trained throughout his entire life for combat, easily catches her wrist with his left arm. He wretches her closer and gets right in her face. "Don't forget that I'm better than you, 12. Just because you're feeling shitty about Loverboy doesn't mean you can resort to violence, now does it? That's my job."

Katniss's wrist feels brittle within the strength of Cato's grasp. She is close, much too close to him for comfort, especially when she can see some of the faint scars lining his face.

"You're a dick, Cato. All you'll ever know is killing and death."

The blond laughs, the sound cruel. His warm breath hits her face and the feeling is an uncomfortable one. "That's how my world is. The winners win big and the losers rot. And right now I'm sure Loverboy is in that room there, rotting away."

She rips her wrist out from his hold. "I feel sorry for you, if that's how you see the world."

"I'm not that one who deserves your pity. Your ex-boyfriend in there is another story."

"Peeta's not my ex-boyfriend."

"Ah, so he's your boyfriend then?"

She pauses a smidgeon too long, and he tosses her another taunting smirk. "That's what I thought."

"You're a real asshole, do you know that?"

"And you're just a slum girl who happened to win it big. You took my crown, you left me with _nothing. _So now I'm just returning the favor."

Katniss goes still. "Returning the favor? Just what did you do, Cato?"

"Well, someone had to tell Loverboy about your lies, right?" Cato hooks his left thumb off the side of his pocket, his crippled arm dangling uselessly by his side. He leans forward as he talks, leveling his tall frame so he can look right into her snapping grey eyes. "From the way I see it, 12, you should be thanking me."

"You were the one that said something to Peeta?"

"Congratulations," he says softly, "you're a winner yet again. What a surprise."

This time Katniss's punch connects to Cato's handsome face. Rearing his head back, he runs a hand across his reddened jaw. The skin smarts when he touches it, and he knows from experience it will form a bruise.

"Fucking hell, you bitch," he winces as he massages the side of his face, eyes as venomous as a tracker jacker. "I'll make sure you regret that."

"You've made me regret telling Panem you were alive even before I said the words," she tells him lividly. Her knuckles, callused from hard labor, pulse slightly from the impact, but the skin hasn't torn. She denies the instinct to rub it to help ease the pain. "What did you tell Peeta?"

"Only what I thought." Cato spits a wad of bloody saliva onto the ground near her boots. Some of it splatters onto the leather, but Katniss refuses to look down and break eye contact.

"I wish your heart stopped that day."

"And I wish I could skewer you through yours right now without being arrested for murder, so we all can't get what we want."

"You act like you know everything, Cato, but you really know nothing. Your heart may be beating, but it's dead on the inside."

"As long as it doesn't prevent me from putting a stop to yours, baby."

The mock endearment causes her to flinch from repulsion, bringing her back to reality. "You're not worth my time, Cato."

"Time is all we got. Stuck together as some three victor freak show bullshit, nice and cozy. Gonna make your life a living hell, just like you've made mine."

"Would you just _listen _to yourself? You're alive, and you blame me for that? Who in their right mind would hold a grudge like that?" Katniss tells him. She is fed up with his continuous blame and anger over something that seems so outlandish. _'How can you be so angry to be alive?' _

He looks down upon her, face impassive. "Well, I was told that I may not be all right in the head," he leans closer again, ignoring the fact that the last time he got so close she punched him, "But I think it's more you than me."

Katniss swallows. She wants to punch him again, just because she can. "Between the two of us, I'm pretty sure you win that one."

"At least I'm honest with how I feel. I don't like you, I don't like Loverboy, and I especially don't like the stupidity of having three victors. But with you, no," He smiles again, and she can see the blood that stains his teeth. His tongue licks some of it away, and he gloats at the taste. "With you, you're a liar. You're not happy either, not with Loverboy, not with winning, not with the Capitol. But you hide it and pretend. We never pretend in 2. What's that point?"

"More like what's _your _point, Cato? Not like you're honest all the time either."

"I don't play along in charades I don't agree with, pretend to love people I don't love, and make nice with people I rather kill. I'm me all the time."

"Ha! As if. You slip on one mask during the interviews and another for the Games, as if you are two different people. Do you not even realize it? Besides, I know I don't like you," she hisses, "And you can't say that I hide that."

"No, you don't, despite Haymitch telling you to pretend otherwise, I'm sure," his blue eyes study her impassively, "though I don't know why you haven't listened."

"I'll make it simple for you to understand. You can't stand losing, and you're an ass," she says, "Does that make it clearer for you?"

"Is everything okay?" Peeta's voice interrupts whatever Cato is about to say next, and they both turn to look at him. Peeta is standing in the doorway, and his eyes are red. The realization is a knife in the gut.

"Fine, Peeta. Everything's just fine."

Cato laughs quietly, and he looks at her with an all-knowing grin. "There you go again, 12."

"Don't act like you know me. Not when you're the one who's messed up in the head, not me," she hisses. In the presence of Peeta, Katniss becomes aware of her questionable proximity to the boy from District 2, and how it must look.

"Are you sure, Katniss?" Peeta asks.

"Yes, fine," she says, keen to escape from the boy she hurt and the boy she hates. Peeta nods and goes back into the room. Katniss turns and walks away from the Career, and this time, doesn't look back.

* * *

><p>"Haymitch," Katniss calls, opening the door to his room without bothering to knock first, "slight problem you might want to know—"<p>

She stops mid-sentence as another person who is not Haymitch rises from a chair within the sitting area.

"Who are you and where is Haymitch?"

The stranger puts up his hands in mock surrender. "Whoa there. Eager with the questions, aren't you?"

Katniss studies the unidentified intruder. He is older than her by a few years, and very handsome. But she isn't one to be fooled by a handsome face. "Just answer the questions and I won't have to do anything you'll regret. Where is Haymitch?"

The stranger's full lips part to reveal straight white teeth and a knockout grin. "Are you threatening me, Katniss?"

"Looks like you know my name, but I sure don't know yours."

"Don't recognize me?"

"Should I?"

"If you watched enough of the Capitol stream," he says—_was that bitterness in his voice?_

"Sorry to disappoint you, but living in District 12 doesn't exactly leave a lot of time to sit around and watch Capitol shows."

"You're feisty. I like that."

Katniss, after her last two encounters with Peeta and Cato, has had enough. Impatience wins out over patience, and she nearly growls, "Well, I know that I don't like how you're avoiding the question. Where is Haymitch?"

"He'll be back, don't worry."

"Somehow I think you'll understand me when I say I don't find that reassuring at all."

The stranger walks slowly around the room, stopping a few feet away from Katniss. Everything about him oozes confidence, self-assurance, and sex. Within the wicked width of his smile hints of a man who will not let fear for his pretty face stop him from necessary violence. Katniss recognizes the fellow predator for what he is. Dangerous.

"Haymitch is fine. You have my promise he will return just as ornery as the last time you saw him," he says.

"And you are?"

The unknown man peers into her face with brazen green eyes. "You sure you really don't know me?"

"You must think highly of yourself, if you assume every person should recognize you on sight," she tells him, holding her ground under the weight of his stare.

He laughs, delighted. "Well this is a treat. I think I like you, Katniss Everdeen."

She stares back at him, nonplussed. "Your name?"

The stranger smiles and inclines his head. "Finnick Odair, at your service."

The name strikes at chord, for who does not know about the famous Fininick Odair? She asks him, "Finnick Odair, as in the District 4 victor, Finnick Odair?"

"That would be me, yes."

"And just what would a District 4 victor want with an older District 12 victor?" Her earlier instincts had been right—this man is as dangerous as they come. It's been years since she watched him as a 14-year-old boy win his Games. But with his name as a ground, Katniss can see the young victor in the face of this older, more matured man.

"If I told you we were old friends, would you believe me?"

"Absolutely not."

"Then I guess I won't have much to tell you at all."

Katniss grits her teeth. "What are you doing at the Capitol? Why Haymitch?"

"I'm just on Capitol duty, as usual. I'm a pretty popular candidate for it, so I come by very often," he says.

"Sounds like fun."

"Highlight of my life."

Katniss crosses her arms. "So if you're here for the Capitol, why are you in Haymitch's rooms?"

"You just don't give up, do you, Girl on Fire?" Finnick's open stare rakes over her again, the look he gives more intimate than she's comfortable with. "Well, I guess you have to be like that, otherwise you wouldn't have won."

He cocks his head to the side, "If you must know, I came here to meet you."

She is taken back. "Meet me? Why?"

"Why not? You've joined our ranks, one of us, all that nonsense."

"Somehow I feel like I don't believe you."

"It's true! Besides, you're even better than I thought," he tells her, and she is momentarily rendered flustered. "But since I now I've met you and we've had our lovely chat, I'll be going now."

Finnick walks over to her, grasps her hands, and pulls it up to meet his mouth. "A pleasure meeting you, Katniss Everdeen. I'm sure I'll be seeing you around."

The handsome man leaves, and she rubs her hand to wipe away the imprint of lips.

* * *

><p>After they receive word of an accident, the two gather their supplies and head out for their patient's shack of a house. As mother and daughter leave their home, their feet stir up little dust clouds that stick to their legs.<p>

Her mother is not much of a conversationalist, but Prim always tries anyway. "Katniss will be home in a few days, I can't wait to see her!"

Mrs. Everdeen trudges along. "It will be good to have her home again."

"Do you think she's going to like our new house?" Prim asks as they approach the main living area of the district.

Her mother answers bluntly, "No."

They find the man's house and let themselves in, putting down their supplies and starting their work.

After Mrs. Everdeen finishes running her needle through the man's ruined flesh, she asks, "Prim, which poultice should I use on Mr. Tomston's wound?"

Prim bites her lip, studying the injury on the groaning man's back. The coal miner had gotten into the fight with another miner, and somehow ended up with the point of the pick biting through his skin.

"I think we should use this one," she says, selecting the medicine and bringing it over to her mother. "It will help with any infection in the wound."

Mrs. Everdeen gives a worn smile of approval. "Yes, exactly right. You've being doing well, studying different poultice combinations and what they do."

Prim flushes under the praise. "Thanks, mom. I'm no where as good as you though."

"In time, that will come. Now, I'll hold Mr. Tomston steady while you apply the medicine, okay?"

"Okay."

Pale, proper, delicate Primrose dips her fingers into the medicine container and applies it to the squeamish wound without hesitation. While her sister fights the strong, Prim defends the weaker. The child is a bit of a contradiction—while she detests violence and bloodshed, she has the heart of a healer.

Prim is drawn to those who cannot help themselves, even when it may not always prove wise for her at the end.

* * *

><p>Some hearts will heal, while other hearts will break.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Hello, everyone! I hope this chapter made for an enjoyable read.<br>**

**It's a bit later than I'd hoped, but here nonetheless. I've been trying to wrap my mind around the awesomeness that is** _The Avengers _** **and all of my Loki feelings. **  
><strong>

****My thanks to those who took the time to review, it means a lot to get feedback!  
><strong>**


	8. For

"The Career Tributes tend to gather rowdily around one table, as if to prove their superiority, that they have no fear of one another and consider the rest of us beneath notice."

-_The Hunger Games, _pg. 97

**Convergence**

Chapter Eight

Is fate tangible? Is it real?

When an event is sent into motion—one insignificant fight, one tiny moment of understanding—just what does it stand to change?

Or, in theory, is it really changing anything at all?

* * *

><p>Haymitch paces the length of the room, his choppy stride betraying his agitation. The older victor directs the brunt of his irritation away from the lean girl sitting on the plush red couch, though it is clear that she undoubtedly caused it.<p>

"You're lucky, you know, that Peeta is the way he is," he says.

"You mean a genuinely nice guy who just had his heart broken?"

"Stop that. I'm not in the mood for self-pity, there's no point in that. Peeta could have blown everything we've been crafting sky-high after your stint with honesty. Weren't you even thinking?"

Katniss stares up at her pacing mentor, disbelief coloring her face. "You've rather me to continue to lie to him?"

"Sweetheart, don't think of it as lying, think of it as staying alive."

"That's an awful way to think."

Haymitch stops mid-stride, one leg still hooked in the air for a precious moment, and then he turns around. "This is an awful world. You grew up in District 12, you're no stranger to this."

"That doesn't make it any better."

"No it doesn't, I never said it would."

"Why didn't you tell him, Haymitch? Give him the same advice that you gave me?"

"I thought we would get better results if he behaved naturally. Sometimes the best farces are built off the basis of truth," he says. "Besides, I didn't want to chance it. The less people knew at the time, the better."

Katniss shifts restlessly in her seat. "Tell Peeta that."

"Don't have to anymore, you already did. And again, I repeat, that wasn't exactly your wisest move. You took a risk."

"Well, I'm sorry I can't be as emotionless as you want," Katniss says as she stands. "I understand to keeping pretending for Panem, but to carry it on without telling Peeta? That just wouldn't be fair to him."

"Even if it would keep you alive? Keep Prim safe? Your mother?" Haymitch advances when she doesn't answer. "Don't depict me as some kind of monster for doing what I need to do."

"Haymitch, I did what I had to do in order to keep my family safe. Don't treat me as if I don't know about sacrifice. I have done _everything _for Prim."

Her mentor rounds on her. "Good. Then don't turn into some priss miss on me now. Not when we're so close to leaving for home tomorrow."

His retort stings. Nothing feels right to Katniss about how Haymitch is behaving. "What is with you today? You're not acting like yourself and it's really starting to piss me off."

The older victor drags a heavy hand up to snatch a bottle of liquor off the refreshments counter. "I'm fine. Don't worry about me. Everything's fine."

Katniss turns her shrewd eyes against him. "No, it's not. You're more paranoid than normal. Tell me."

Haymitch slurps back his drink and wipes away whatever amber liquid seeps down the side of his lips. He immediately refills his glass without answering.

"Why was Finnick in your room last night?" Her voice rings out quietly and churns the silence.

"You've met Finnick then, I see."

"Good guess. Now, answer me this—why was another victor in your room and why did he say he wanted to meet me? Better yet, where were _you?" _

"I can't tell you that."

This is not an answer that sits well. "Why not?"

"Because I just can't."

"Haymitch—"

"**No, **Katniss. When the time is right, if it ever is, I'll tell you. But for now you'll just have to trust me. And _listen _to me when I stress how imperative it is for you to keep your head down and not do anything that might attract unwanted attention." Haymitch's words carry the weight of stone, and seem just as unmovable.

"I hope you know what you're doing, Haymitch."

He shoots her an ironic, brandy-coated smile. "Don't ask for miracles, sweetheart. Now, go make nice with Peeta if you can."

"I don't think Peeta wants anything to do with me right now, and I can't say that I blame him."

"Well, regardless of what he may or may not want, you two have a charade to continue. It's not like you can expect curtain call when you're still in the middle act."

"I'm not even sure if we can make it to that."

"You better. I'm invested enough to see this play through to the end, whatever that end may be. You just have to keep doing your part as Peeta's lover, at least until we get back to District 12. Snow would expect no less, and the last thing we need to do is give him another opening."

"I can't wait to leave here tomorrow. The Capitol…it's suffocating."

"If you just keep your mouth shut and your conscience confined, you'll get to."

Katniss scowls. "I wasn't even the one who brought it up, so stop blaming me. I was going to, but he asked before I could."

"Peeta brought it up? Himself? Why?" Haymitch says, genuinely surprised. "He didn't seem to suspect anything after the Games."

"Cato mentioned something to him," she spat out the name as if it were a curse, causing her mentor's face to immediately darken.

"Ah, our favorite victor from District 2. Why does that not surprise me…" his voice trails off.

"He's had it out for me before the Games even started. And after everything that happened, I doubt it will change."

"That boy's dangerous," Haymitch tells her, resuming his pacing. His stride is jerky and causes the brandy to slosh back and forth like a wave against the glass. Katniss watches the liquid, a similar feeling in the pit of her stomach.

"He's a Career," she says, as if that explained everything.

"No, it's more than that. There's something about him. If he called you out about the charade with Peeta, logically that must mean that he's been paying attention to you. I'm sure I don't need to tell you that it is something we must certainly don't need from the likes of him."

"I know that. He's unstable. Cato's shown that side of himself more than enough times."

Haymitch isn't appeased. "Katniss, he's a loose cannon. Don't antagonize him further."

"I usually try to just avoid him."

"Good. Keep doing that, and perhaps we'll be able to get back to District 12 without Snow getting what he needs to string us up. And to be honest, that wouldn't take much."

Katniss stands from her chair and stretches tight muscles. She takes a moment to roll her shoulders and crack her neck, the audible sound from the joints vibrating out like a gunshot.

"I'm going to go. I need to do something that just doesn't involve sitting in a chair and or doing interviews," she says.

Haymitch, for the first time, notices he has split some of his liquor on the floor. The liquid has run down the sides of the glass and dripped to the rug from his hands. "Yes, go ahead. I'll talk to you later about what time we leave tomorrow for District 12."

"Sure," she tells him, and heads for the door.

"Oh, and Katniss?"

"Yes?"

"Just remember what I said about Cato. He reminds me very much of myself."

"Of yourself? Haymitch, you're nothing like Cato."

"I've never been the kind of physical competitor he is, I rely more on mental combat. But Cato will do what he has to win, as will I."

"Your point?"

Haymitch looks her steadily in the eyes. "I know what I would do to win."

As she leaves, she tries not to smile as Haymitch mutters in the background, beyond the closing door, about how Effie will scold his ears off once she sees the stain.

* * *

><p>The training center was never her destination, but she somehow ends up there anyway.<p>

Perhaps if she knew he would be there, she would have never gone in the first place. Or maybe she would, just to prove a point in their battle of wills and mutual dislike. Regardless, when Katniss walks in on Cato training, it is too far past the notions of possibility.

The District 12 victor, tired from the constant worry and plotting under the suppression of Snow's Capitol—_after all, she wasn't much of an actress but she had to be if she's gotten this far, right?—_turns to archery as a distraction.

And so, Katniss finds herself back within the walls of the training center. Slipping past the unyielding metal doors, the center itself echoes with the voices of tributes come and gone and the sound of her squeaky footsteps against training mats.

'_This place sits, waiting for next year's batch of tributes to come through its doors and train for a slaughter that twenty-three of them do not have a hope to win.' _ The room was the Capitol's purgatory—a holding area for those who have no choice but to wait and see if death will send them to heaven or hell.

Katniss suppresses the urge to shiver as she looks around. In the stillness of the center, the presence of ghosts linger. _'I wonder how I didn't see them before. Maybe I shouldn't have come here.' _But leaving the solitude of the training center meant facing all those whom she wished to avoid (or wanted to avoid her), so Katniss presses on.

She passes by the weights Peeta lifted only weeks ago, striding down past the aisle of spears that ooze with the spirit of Marvel, and avoiding the knives that Clove once held. The place held many memories, and most of them were bad. Katniss bypasses all of this, heading for the side room that contained the archery targets. Exiting the main area of the training center, the small room held just the right amount of space for archery practice.

When Katniss reaches the corner of the room that held the bows—far off and secluded from view, just how she prefers—she pauses a moment instead of grabbing the closest one. Running calloused fingertips across the smooth wood, she closes her eyes and is thankful it isn't silver metal.

As she shoots the arrows, the targets take on the indistinct form of the bodies of people she'll never see again—especially the ones she personally killed herself. The shades are haunting and unforgiving, and after a while, Katniss lowers her bow.

'_I thought this would be a distraction, but it's only making things worse.' _Gripping the bow against her chest, as if doing so would erase the memories attached at the bow string, she settles against the back of the wall, sliding down to meet the ground. _'At least Prim is safe. No matter the cost.' _Even after everything, that one fact still held the highest importance.

The wall, hard against her back, offers more comfort and familiarity than the soft Capitol mattress that awaits her upstairs. As she settles herself, she realizes she has something in her pocket. Scooting forward a bit, Katniss pulls the hand grip from her back pocket.

'_Oh, I forgot I had this.' _

The hand grip gleams under the light, undamaged from Cato's throw across the hospital room days ago. Fitting the device between her fingers, Katniss presses together the metal arms of the grip and releases it slowly. She does it again and again, working her muscles while her mind drifts away.

The training center, even with all of its ghosts, offers a place from everything else. Concentrating on her straining muscles is a welcome relief from the chaos of her life. With the hand grip in her palm, the bow on the floor next to her, and the silence of room that offers a sense of forest-like peace, Katniss relishes the only escape allotted to her.

* * *

><p>His body screams for him to stop, but his mind insists he keeps going. And for his part, Cato always leaned towards the more physical side of matters.<p>

'_Pain is nothing, remember? Not to someone like me. Pain means that I'm alive.' _

Regardless of his mantra, it didn't escape his notice that even stretching his maimed arm causes more difficulty than he'd ever experienced in his life. _'District 2 would have left me to die if I had been born like this. Brutus would have never wasted his time. I would have never been chosen for the Games.' _Granted, it isn't a cheery thought, but simple fact. District 2 did not have a place for those who could not keep up—it was considered a kindness to cull the weak and the unfortunate.

'_I'm not weak. I'm worthy.' _Cato reaches for sword he trained so feverously with just weeks ago, on top of the world and drenched in self-confidence. The blade gleams with a wicked light, holding the promise of strength for the wielder who can handle it.

It took conscious effort for him to reach with his non-dominant, non-lame arm and grasp the clean metal. The sword felt alien to his left-handed touch, and the urge to use his right arm is nearly overwhelming. It is maddening for him that he couldn't.

'_Brutus told me to train, eh? I'm the best in my District. I beat the others, beat Clove! This is nothing. Nothing.' _Cato glances down at his mangled arm, clenching his grip on the sword that didn't feel natural within the hand that held it. _'I'm the best.' _

The dummy leers from the shadows of the room, as if mocking the boy who stood before it. Cato sneers back. Mere weeks ago, the dummy was a joke to his skill and strength. It was almost an insult to him to have to fence with it, not when there were so many of his fellow tributes around to take a practice swing or two at.

Now it stood as a challenge. An insulting, leering challenge to all he once was and what has been left behind. Cato grips the hilt of the sword, willing his body to accept what his mind refuses to let go.

'_I am from District 2.'_

The blond boy lunges at the dummy, taking a wild swing that falls short of the target. The sword feels awkward and bulky in his left hand.

'_I'm the best.'_

Cato whirls around and slashes, aiming for the throat. The sword buries itself in the shoulder.

'_I'm not weak.' _

Forced to use his non-dominant hand, it is as if he is starting over again. A newcomer in the game he used to dominate. The District 2 victor yanks the blade from the dummy, sending a shower of wooden splinters to the floor.

'_I'm worthy.' _

He transfers the sword to his damaged hand. The muscles spasm, his grip doesn't connect.

The sword slips to the ground in a clatter.

'_I'm not weak.'_

The boy stares at the sword for several still moments, the leer of the dummy hot against his neck. He ignores the way his non-damaged arm trembles as he reaches for the blade.

'_I'm worthy.'_

Cato tells himself that it is sweat which pricks his eyes, and not tears.

* * *

><p>The sudden noise that comes from the outer training center causes the girl within the side room to jerk her head over to the door. When she hears the sudden noise, she reacts in a way that immediately betrays the weeks she spent living amongst the hunted—her eyes snap over to the source of the noise, hand immediately reaching for an arrow. It is a reflex that will no doubt prove difficult to break, and one she does not plan on stopping any time soon. Not in this den of painted vipers.<p>

'_Sounds like someone else came here too. Dammit, why can't I just be left alone?' _

Cursing her poor luck, she eases herself up from the floor, tucking the small hand grip into the back pocket of her pants. Katniss opens the door and walks back into the main training area, ready to deal with whomever had unintentionally joined her.

Hah.

'_Of course. Of course it would be him.'_

The boy before her leaks sweat from what looked to be every pore on his body. His skin is positively coated in the warm shell of perspiration. One particularly stubborn line snakes down his forehead, creating a haphazard diagonal path as it runs. The sweat tears down over his eyebrow and into his eye, but Cato barely pauses a moment to acknowledge it. He sharply jerks his head to the side, sending the pooling sweat flying through the air and lands, splattering, in tiny drops across the padded floor.

Sweat on his face, blood on his heart, and a sword ready in his hands. That is the boy before her, no more, no less.

As if he senses her stare, Cato whirls around to meet her eyes. Katniss can tell the moment he recognizes her since his body immediately goes rigid, as he has just been caught doing something bad.

'_Sorry, Haymitch. I would have avoided him if I could.' _Wasn't exactly her fault the big brute is blocking the way to the door and had super senses.

"Training again?" Katniss calls out to him, hoping to get this over with quickly. _'Don't antagonize, even though he certainly deserves it after that crap from last night.' _

Cato hefts the sword more firmly within his grip, and replies, "What's it to you?"

"It's not anything to me," she responds back easily, "since I pretty much had the same idea." The brunette gestures towards the bow, attempting to play nice. "I just didn't expect the company."

"Neither did I."

"I counted on the fact it would be too morbid to come back here."

"Morbid?"

"Yeah, you know, coming back to a place like this."

"So make sure you close the door on your way out."

They stare each other down. Cato drips pride like sweat and Katniss is stubborn to a fault.

"Who says I'm leaving?" she says, the conversation with Haymitch short-lived in her mind.

"Me."

"Perhaps I'd take that more seriously if you didn't look like death. Arm bothering you?"

Cato reflexively glances down at the mutilated appendage that can't seem to stop trembling from his prior exertion. He is sure she could see it from where she stood. The last thing he wants is for her to see him like this—to give her the satisfaction of seeing him so pathetic.

"None of your business, 12. Now get out of here and leave me alone."

"Oh really? None of my business? Well, what happened between Peeta and I last night was _none _of _your _business, but that didn't seem to stop you."

"That still bothering you?" Cato smirks, and for the first time, Katniss sees a hint of the cocky boy before the defensive mask he wears consumes him again. "My, my. Must've struck a nerve, didn't I? Better leave now to go make up with Loverboy."

The driving urge to mortify the boy before her is difficult to resist. Pissing off Cato would be so fleetingly worth it.

"You know, last night you were much more confident and cocky. Right now you look as if you're about to fall apart, and you seem to want me gone as soon as possible," Katniss tapes a finger against her chin. "Is it safe to say you're wearing another Career mask?"

"The only part of whatever shit you're spouting that I cared to listen to is when you mentioned leaving. Why don't you take yourself up on that?"

'_Why does he want me to leave so badly? And why isn't he shouting? What the hell is wrong with him?' _

"You can give it, but you can't take it? I'm not surprised, considering all you really had to rely on was your strength. Too bad that's gone."

"Shut up and get out of here." His eyes are hard and flinty, but his voice lacks its usual force.

She studies the boy before her, finally noticing he is still dripping sweat even when he hasn't active for the past few minutes. Katniss doesn't miss the way his body seems to sag in upon itself. His left hand grips the sword as if it were a life line.

"Hey, what's with you?"

Sensing a change in her tone, Cato immediately turns wary. He wants her out and gone as soon as possible. His battered body is corpse-heavy and his head holds the pulse of a promised headache to come.

"I don't know what you mean," he tells her and winces at how defensive the words sound. "I'm not wasting any more time talking to you, slumsgirl. I've got more important things to do."

Katniss stares at the boy with the sword. "Training?"

"What else would I be doing down here?"

"But you have nothing left to train for," she says, lips drawn in a straight line, "The games are over, Cato. They're done."

Cato's wan face remains void of any kind of emotion. His body is nearing its limit, a frustratingly short one at that, and she is still here to see it. "It'll never be over for me."

Glaring at the blond, Katniss reminds herself that the bow is in her hands just in case she needs it. "Do you seriously have that much resentment about not winning the Games?" she spits.

"It's not about resentment, you stupid girl," he hisses back. "It's so much more than that."

"Is it, now? What, you didn't get to kill enough people while you were there? Didn't meet whatever body count you set for yourself beforehand?" Katniss seeps her fury like a toxin and wears her pain as armor. _'Well, there goes calm.' _

"Killing is just part of the Game. Those tributes had their deaths coming the moment they had their names plucked from the bowl. I _needed _to kill them!"

"You didn't _need _to do anything, not the way you did! That's what disgusts me the most about you—you enjoyed every moment of it! I bet you wish you could go back."

"Yes, I enjoyed it—why wouldn't I? It was _my _time, after all those years. And you, you had to go and put on a show with Loverboy and just take it away from me," he shoots back, not hesitating in the slightest. "Of course I wish I could go back, because then I would have made sure to kill you first."

"How could Peeta and I not bluff our way through, especially when put against killing machines like you? We would have never stood a chance." Cato opens his mouth to speak, Katniss continues, cutting him off, "You trained for years for these stupid Games while we barely had time to get ready! It's not my fault that our strategy worked better than yours—that people actually _liked _us. Did it ever once cross your mind that perhaps the Districts are tired of watching people like you win?"

Cato's eyes narrow dangerously. "The Games are supposed to be about death and sacrifice. People _watch _to see that. They want to see tributes who bring honor to their districts and make them proud."

"They watch because the Capitol makes them watch, not because they want to. They watch because they can't look away without damning themselves with those already in the arena."

"In District 2, it is something to be proud of—to be chosen!" Cato tells her, conviction dotting his words. "It's about honor!"

Katniss's bangs overshadow her eyes. "Tell me, Cato, where is the honor in killing children? In killing those who cannot defend themselves?" Her hand jerks up and swipes the bangs from her gaze and Rue is reflected against her bitter pupils. "Just where is the honor in that?"

"In proving yourself, in showing how strong you are! Letting the nation know just how much you would do to honor your family and District," he says. "To be chosen, to win, is to gain admiration and respect."

"Proving yourself against who? Against a teenager who never held a knife in her hands before? Against a little boy who already doesn't have enough to eat? Or with a young girl who only wants to be with her family?"

"The weak only get in the way of the strong. If a person cannot keep up with the rest, then why should others waste time on them?"

"So if you were chosen as a twelve-year-old boy for the Games, it would be alright if someone who had so much more training strike you down? Kill you when you were never a threat?"

"I would never let myself be killed like that. I've trained since I was a chi—"

"That's not the point!" Katniss cuts him off. "Most children aren't raised like that!"

"It _is _the point!" Cato takes a step towards her, his expression dark. "I've always been strong. I've always been a contender."

"Well, you're not now!"

Silence.

As soon as the sentence slips from her mouth, the words spilling into the chilled air, Katniss realizes she might have finally gone too far. The temperamental boy before her rears his head back as if she has slapped him again.

The brunette girl takes in the lamed boy who is pale from heavy exertion at a pace much too fast and too soon. The sword is in a hand that is unused to the weight of the weapon, having never been relied on before for such a task. The maimed arm is an ugly reminder to her of the damage the Games stands for, stretching beyond the physical and mental means of any normal person.

In light of such a sight, a small piece of the puzzle fits quietly, unnoticed, into place.

"That's why you're training, aren't you?" Katniss asks.

Cato shifts from whatever stupor her prior words has sent him into, his expression closed and ominous. "Get out of here, 12, before I kill you for that."

But Katniss can't stop talking, the words escaping before she can check them.

"You're training because you're worried what your District is going to think of you when you go home. What your friends, what your family—"

"I said get out of here—leave!"

"What everyone you grew up with, trained with, respected, is going to say now that—"

"I'm going to kill you, you stupid bitch."

"—now that you've become the kind of person you think it's okay to kill."

Cato lunges for her with the sword, but the moment lacks fluidity and his usual grace. Katniss easily slips to the side to evade the attack. Taking her bow, she slams the wood against the side of Cato's extended arm. It breaks his awkward hold on the weapon, and the sword goes flying, skidding across the floor and out of reach.

Panting, Cato looks down at his left hand, balling it into a fist. The anger he feels is overwhelming, but what bothers him the most is that the bulk of it is directed at himself.

Katniss watches him, wary to have him so close but confident enough to get away if he tries anything again. Quietly, she says, "If you were fighting with your regular arm, you would have never allowed yourself to be disarmed."

"You think you're telling me something I don't know?"

The exhaustion Katniss noticed when she first saw him is more evident now. She doesn't remember a time where Cato ever allowed himself to look so tired while under the prying eyes of another person, not to mention herself.

It is almost unnerving.

"Why does winning mean so much to you, Cato?"

His words are robotic as he says, "Because to win is to bring honor and respect to everything I care about."

"And what makes it so honorable to win the Games?"

Cato sighs, dragging a heavy hand across his brow to wipe away the sweat dripping into his eyes. "What do you care, 12? It's something you'll never understand."

"Try me."

"I've been training for the Games since I was a little kid. The Games have always been important to every family in my District, that's just how it is."

"But why?"

Cato shoots her a look. "Why is it that you climb trees so easily? You grew up practicing. You're way too at home in the forest to be someone who didn't spend countless hours in one. Well, instead of forests, District 2 is about fighting."

"It always comes back to fighting for you, doesn't it?"

"It's not just about fighting, slumsgirl, it's about the art itself. How good you are with a sword, or a dagger, or a mace. What level of weapon skill can you master? The more you perfect yourself, the higher odds you have to achieve everything you want."

"…which is winning the Games."

"Yes and no," Cato glares at her. "It's first about getting _chosen. _ I've spent years getting ready in hopes for it. In District 2, we volunteer to participate in the Games, so they only pick the best. To be chosen to fight for your District is to be picked out of so many hopefuls. It's a sign that your District recognizes you will be the best one to represent them. Families have generations of victors within their bloodlines, you know? I busted my ass since I was a kid in effort to get chosen."

When she doesn't answer, Cato pauses, looking at her to make sure she wasn't mocking him. Katniss shrugs her shoulders slightly in encouragement to go on. She remains silent, but she is listening to every word the big blond killer is saying.

"And I was chosen. I've wanted them to recognize me for so long, and then they did. They wanted _me._" The dead look in his eyes is eclipsed by a spark as his talks, caught up in his pride for his District.

"And then I lost it for them. Can you imagine how that feels, 12? To be picked out of so many, after years of working towards something, and then to lose to a pair of tributes from an outlying district?"

Cato looks her full in the face, dislike seeping from his eyes. She stares back unflinchingly.

"You two, you didn't even want it. Not how I wanted it. It is one thing to die in the Games, for at least you died fighting with everything you had within yourself to win—died proving that your district wasn't entirely wrong in choosing you. But I couldn't even do that."

The blond laughs, but the sound is harsh and cold. It makes Katniss's stomach jump. "So here I am. Crippled, unable to fight like I used to. I lost, but I'm not dead. I can't do anything right."

Katniss stares at him. "So you think if you can fight again, you will be accepted back in your District?" she questions, unsure of how he will react.

"The least I can do is hope they don't kick me out."

"They would really do that?" Katniss asks, the notion startling. District 12 may not be paradise, but at least they wouldn't close their doors to one of their own.

Cato shrugs, causing his shoulder muscles to ripple from the motion. "I'll find out soon enough, since I leave for home tomorrow. I obviously hope they don't. But you never know," he says, in effort to sound nonchalant. "There is no place for the weak in this world, so I'll make sure no one sees me that way again."

As he talks, Katniss realizes, on some level she'd rather not acknowledge, she never really understood Cato at all.

Taking on a will of their own, her hands move towards her back pocket. With actions unbidden by her mind, Katniss finds herself pulling out the hand grip Cato had flung away that day in the hospital. The small metal device gleams under the artificial light of the training center within the palm of her hand.

"Here," she says, roughly placing the device into his left hand before either realizes what she is doing.

They both stare at it.

"What's this, 12? Gifts?" He chuckles, a smug look masking his prior openness. "Don't tell me you have a crush on me now."

"What are you, five-years-old?" She says, disgusted. "I still dislike you, idiot. I think you're an obnoxious, arrogant, temperamental killer who is kind of fucked up in the head."

Cato's eyes narrow.

"But I don't need this. And it should have been yours anyway," Katniss continues.

"Going soft on me now?"

"Should I mention again how much I dislike you?"

"I believe you already stated that clearly. Unless you have more to add?"

"Trust me, I could definitely go on for a while longer concerning all the things about you that just rub me the wrong way."

"So why give me this?" Cato gestures to the device in his hand.

Katniss shifts, unable to explain fully to herself the reasoning behind a gesture she made in haste. "Since you clearly suck fighting with your left hand, it looks like you're just going to have to build up strength in your right one."

"Well, aren't you full of compliments today."

Katniss, irritated at the cocky blond, stalks over to an empty shelf and places the bow down.

"Just take it before I change my mind, okay?"

Cato smirks, but his palm closes around the small object. "Not that smart of you, giving me something that will only help me make your life more miserable faster."

"We're both going home tomorrow. Not like we're going to see each other anytime soon," she says, "Besides, I clearly can take you without much difficulty."

"I hate you, 12."

'I hate you too," she replies, happy to be back on the same level with each other and away from whatever the hell that was just moments ago. Even now, having a better idea of the reasons behind his bloodlust, she doesn't pity him nor like him.

She just understands him a bit better.

"Goodbye, Cato." And she slips out the door, content with the possibility of never seeing the District 2 boy again. That part of her life is over, and Katniss is more than ready to go home.

* * *

><p>The head medic twists her hands together, betraying her nerves. Looking up at the impassive guards flanking her, she wishes for nothing more than to bolt.<p>

"Are you sure President Snow wanted to see _me?_"

The guard on her right grunts an affirmative.

The head medic didn't think she had anything to fear, but who knew with the President? He may look like a kindly old man, but the medic had seen his cruelty enough times to worry.

And worry she did.

The guards bring her to the end of the hallway, stopping in front of an elegant door and opening it for the medic. President Snow looks up from his seat and nods at the nervous woman to come in.

He holds a small object in his hands that rattles a bit as he stands.

She takes a breath and steps inside.

* * *

><p><strong>Hello, everyone! It's been longer than I've hoped. The smaller, less crucial reason initially for this is because I spent some time out in California. I'm from New York, so it was pretty much east coast meets west coast and having my "New York accent" laughed at by pretty much every Californian I met. <strong>

**The larger, more realistic reason behind the delay is this-**

** During the last two months, I've been completing my internship for my masters degree. I also work full time. So each week has consisted of 40+ hours of working plus 20+ hours of internship at night and on my weekends. I've been writing this chapter in whatever free time I had, which wasn't much. I'm almost done with my internship and hope to resume a more normal updating schedule.  
><strong>

**So, in another words, I have not abandoned this fic nor have any intentions to do so. I just need to reclaim my free time again once this internship is over! Thank you for all your reviews and I hope you've enjoyed this latest update!  
><strong>


	9. Cato

"The train begins moving and we're plunged into night until we clear the tunnel and I take my first free breath since the reaping."

-_The Hunger Games, _pg. 370

**Convergence**

Chapter Nine

Trust doesn't always come so effortlessly.

Betrayal can be much more readily perceived.

Madness makes it all untouchable.

* * *

><p>::<p>

_Screech. _

The train lets out a shrill whistle, a noise that goes blaring through the long line of compartments, and Katniss clamps her hands over her skull. Grimacing from the racket, her passing annoyance fades away as the train slowly chugs past from the platform.

Peeta stands by the window as the train begins to move, waving to the crying Capitol citizens as they fall on top of themselves to say goodbye. Peeta flirts with his audience as they clamber to see the victors from 12 off on their journey home, charming until the moment the last Capitol citizen disappears out of view. Then he turns from the window and leaves the compartment without a word.

'_Ouch. Well, not like it's much of a surprise.' _

Haymitch watches Peeta go, his mouth set in a thin line of disapproval. "That's just great."

"What did you expect? That Peeta would act the way he did before?" Katniss says. "He sees us as two people who've lied to his face for weeks and didn't trust him with the truth. And he's not wrong."

Her mentor _hmphs_ his disapproval, running anxious fingers through his hair in obvious annoyance at the situation. "Sure you two just can't kiss and make up?"

The brunette flushes, modesty getting the better of her. "The only way that will happen is if I tell Peeta that I love him."

"And you'll do that?" Haymitch asks hopefully.

She glares at him. "No!"

Haymitch _hmphs_ again, and Katniss looks down to pick at one of her cuticles. "Not if I don't mean it in the way he does," she explains.

The older man sighs and turns his attention back to his ever present glass of liquor. "I guess we can cut our losses for now and hope he'll come around. We'll need some romance between the two of you once we get to District 12. People will still be watching."

"All they ever do is watch and wait for us to slip up."

"As is life. It's never easy being in the spotlight."

"I would ask how you've dealt with it, but I think I already have my answer," Katniss gestures towards the glass Haymitch currently holds in his hands, and curls her upper lip back in disapproval. "Does it help?"

"Not one bit," Haymitch answers cheerfully, and downs another shot of alcohol.

"Yet you do it anyway."

"Until the day it kills me, yes."

"You have such a hopeful outlook for your future."

Haymitch gives her a warning look to caution against pushing the subject further. "We'll see how you deal now that you're a victor in your own right."

Katniss pulls her legs up against her chest and wraps her arms around her knees. "I'm almost nervous to find out myself," she admits.

"You know, people think that they should pity the chosen tributes, and I'm not saying that they're wrong to do so. But it's really the victors that have to live each day with who we lost and what we did to stay alive."

Katniss winces, remembering the ghosts that had surrounded her while in the training center. It wasn't only the people she killed that haunt her. The chains that tie her to the dead keep adding their links, and Katniss wonders one day if she'll suffocate from it.

"…I hope my family doesn't think less of me now," she says, and Haymitch has to strain to hear the words before the dead air absorbs them back into silence.

"Katniss," Haymitch says gently, his voice uncharacteristically catching in the back of his throat. "They would be stupid to think that. And I doubt that any family who has as bright and wonderful a daughter as you could ever be a bunch of fools."

She smiles from behind her knees. "You're supposed to say that. You're my mentor."

"No," he says, "I say it because it's true."

Neither of them speaks for a while, content within their own separate worlds. Haymitch sips his drink and Katniss watches the landscape whiz by, colors melting into one another and bleeding into one big mess. Neither calls attention to the fact that Peeta doesn't return to the car, but it hangs heavy between them.

"I wonder if Prim will be any different."

Haymitch glances over, roused from a semi-drowsy state that has set in among the quiet. "Different? You've only been gone about two months. I doubt anything has seriously changed about how she looks within that sort of time frame."

"That's not the kind of change I'm talking about," Katniss smiles wistfully, "and I think you know that."

"Prim seems like a sweet kid. I'm sure she was able to keep up with things at home just fine while you were gone," Haymitch takes a sip from his glass, "You've taught her well, Katniss."

"It almost doesn't feel real that we're going home. When I volunteered for the Games instead of Prim, even though I promised…even though I promised her I'd win, I never actually _believed _that I could, you know?"

"I think every victor believes that," Haymitch says, "even a long time after they win."

"I suppose that's true. Excluding the Careers, of course," Katniss says absentmindedly, glancing back at the nauseating display of colors outside.

"Always thought that it was kind of silly, don't you agree? It's not like they can all win, and the Careers never fail to act like it's possible that they can. Running around in little packs, taking out the other tributes like a wailing mob from hell. At least until it's time to turn on one another, which always inevitably happens."

"I guess it can't be helped, not with how the Careers are raised."

"Taught from birth to kill, most of them no better than wild animals. Rabid, their kind."

"Their kind? That's a bit harsh, Haymitch. But the Careers are different from the rest of the other tributes, and I agree with you that it's not in a good way," Katniss rests her chin in the cup of her palm, staring out through the glass. "I can't imagine how Prim would have turned out to be if she was raised like that."

"Lucky for you both, you don't have to."

"Yeah, I know. But still, to be raised like that? It would turn anyone into a monster."

It's a normal statement, but the way she says it, thoughtfully and with the barest hint of passing compassion, that causes Haymitch to shoot her a sharp look. "Oh? Since when have you become such the Career expert?"

The question is laced with another question, phrased in a way that Katniss recognizes all too well from Haymitch. She knows that she has unintentionally raised his suspicions, and Katniss can't help but feel as if she'd said the wrong thing.

"I never mentioned that I was," she hedges.

Haymitch's imploring eyes don't leave her. "It's just surprising talk coming from you, that's all."

Katniss looks him square in the face. "About the Careers? I've just been thinking about how they get to be what they are, you know? After facing off with them in the Games, is that really so unusual?"

"Coming from you? Forgive me for saying this, but yes, it is."

"Are you trying to imply I can't have the same deep, reflective thoughts as you do, Haymitch?"

"No, it's just as to what those thoughts are concerning which troubles me." Her mentor isn't thrown off the scent.

"Well, you have no reason to be troubled. We're going home, aren't we? Almost in the clear and then free for a while," Katniss says, somewhat offended. "You don't have to worry about me ruining your plans or getting into a fight or—"

"Stop being ridiculous, that's not what I meant at all," Haymitch tells her, frustrated at the turn of the conversation. "It'll be simpler for you in the long run not to consider what makes those people become who they are, not when it can't be changed and has no further bearing on your life."

"No further bearing? As if I could forget any moment of it."

"Exactly. And it won't help if you try and humanize them or rationalize what happened. The Careers aren't people, Katniss. That was robbed from them at an early age and replaced with whatever the Districts saw fit—in this case, it's the desire to uphold whatever twisted form of honor they have, coupled with the talent of a remorseless killer. They don't turn into monsters, they are bred to be them."

The last thing Katniss wants is trouble, especially trouble with Haymitch over something like this. So she tells him bluntly, "I'm not disagreeing with you," and that shuts him up on the subject. Mostly.

"Hey, Katniss, I wanted to ask you this earlier, but considering all of this Career talk, now seems like the perfect time. Did you happen to bump into Cato last night?"

She doesn't flinch at the unexpected question, but she comes damn well close. The last conversation she had with the District 2 boy is fresh in her memory, and she still doesn't know what to make of it.

'_I wonder how much of what Cato said last night was true and how much was just a gimmick,' _Katniss thinks, remembering all too vividly how well a Career can play up to an audience. _'Could he have been trying to get me to lower my guard around him? Give him an opening?' _

Cato had never allowed himself to be seen as weak before, never shared detailed about himself or his life. The Careers stuck solidly with other Careers, at least until they went to kill each other. _'Careers don't go around having conservations explaining things like that with citizens from the outlying Districts. So then why…?' _

"Katniss?" Haymitch prompts when she doesn't say anything.

"Oh, I'm sorry. What did you say?"

"I asked if you ran into Cato after you left my room. I heard he was down in the training center from Brutus, and isn't that where you went last night?"

Haymitch is digging, and Katniss doesn't like it. _'If I tell him yes, he's going to be pissed that I didn't get out of the center as soon as I saw Cato there. And he's going to have questions—was Cato telling the truth? I knew it was different to live within the interior Districts, but to be raised like that?' _

Cinna had told her that growing up in District 2 wasn't anything like District 12, but she hadn't paid much heed to his words. Cato's anger and love for violence and bloodshed have always taken the spotlight in her mind when it came to the big Career. There never used to be a why to his actions, never had to be. _'And still doesn't have to be,' _she tells herself firmly, disliking the way in which their conversation last night has stuck with her. '_Even if he has his reasons, it's not normal. Cato isn't right in the head, and understanding him a bit better won't change that.' _

And yet.

She remembers the boy last night who stood before her, so easily infuriated by her words, and yet so broken by them too. As if she had sucker punched him to the gut. _'I don't trust him, and I certainly don't like him. So then why…?'_

Why did it bother her to think that in some delicate, unconnected manner, Cato might be something of an antagonist and a victim?

She takes too long to answer, and knows Haymitch doesn't believe her when she finally tells him no. He is much too shrewd for that. But he doesn't push, and she doesn't give any more answers. Katniss holds the peculiar conversation from spilling out, a tiny little secret that she knows she has no reason to hide but does so anyway.

Katniss keeps it within herself, possibly to examine on another day. Perhaps then she can properly analyze what Cato said and what spurred her into giving him the hand grip back. Another day, years from now, when the events don't make her feel as if she only has a glimpse of a very convoluted picture.

So she tucks it away, alongside the array of other memories she doesn't want to deal with. Turning from the thoughts of a messed up killer of a boy she'd almost rather not understand—for it's simpler that way, isn't it?—Katniss concentrates on going home instead.

'_Home.' _

Away from the Capitol, away from prettied up malice and political games, and away from a sadistic slaughterer with bright blue eyes who usually preferred to shout death threats than share life stories with the one person he'd love to kill most of all.

Time to regain some semblance of normal.

* * *

><p>::<p>

The ride from the Capitol to District 2 isn't a long one, but it feels like it might as well be. The speeding train is smooth and bump-free, but it doesn't stop the pinpricks of pain that periodically pierce throughout the muscles of his crippled arm.

It also doesn't give an explanation for the pounding headache that is currently raking its claws across his brain and shredding his tentative hold on his sanity.

'_She's lucky we left this morning, or I think I might have finally killed her,' _he thinks, more out of mortification than anything else. _'Letting 12 see me like that, saying that crap…dammit.' _

Cato doesn't know what bothers him more—the fact that Katniss was there to witness to his shame, or the way in which she said aloud the things he'd feared to admit to himself within the privacy of his own mind. _'Have I really become so weak? How much have I shamed my District by returning to them as I am now?'_

'_Am I even worthwhile to keep?' _

Cato scowls at the handgrip held tight in his right hand, as if it is to blame for all of his problems. When Katniss left after giving the handgrip to him, pushing it into his palm at the end of their conversation—_a conversation! He wouldn't believe it himself if he hadn't been an active part in it_—he didn't know quite what to do with it.

To be honest, Cato had been tempted to throw it away (again). He didn't want something that had found its way back to him through the likes of slumsgirl, even when it stood a good chance at helping strengthen his arm. _'Is this a pity gift, 12? Or is it a way to mock me further?' _

Any other reasoning didn't make any sense, and isn't considered. Cato has been taught his entire life that any sort of action comes with the additional baggage of hidden motives attached by invisible strings. He considered himself an expert at figuring out what drove most people to act—for what kind of predator would Cato be if he couldn't read those around him?

But for the life of him, Cato still couldn't figure out had driven her actions last night with this parting gift-that-wasn't-a-gift—_words like kindness or compassion are much too foreign concepts to ever be considered—_ and that alone is more than enough to fuel his irritation. So he decides to keep the handgrip, figuring the best way to spite her and whatever her gutter-rat brain had in mind is to use the item instead.

It also served as a distraction from the real problems awaiting him at his homecoming.

'_It all just keeps getting worse and worse, eh?' _

The sound of the compartment door opening isn't enough to draw the District 2 boy from his thoughts, but the bottle that comes flying at his head does.

Ducking his head out of the way, Cato looks up to meet the mocking grin of his old mentor. The oddity of the girl and their surreal conversation from the night before evaporates, wisp-like, from his mind. "Seriously, Brutus? You better fucking watch yourself."

"Oh please, you should be thanking me for checking to see if you still have your reflexes," Brutus says innocently, though the grin on his face negates the effort.

"If thanking you means I get to put my fist through your face, then yeah, come over here so I can thank you."

His headache drills into his temples alongside every word he says, taking vengeance on Cato for moving so quickly moments prior. _'I'm really not in the mood for this…just what the hell is wrong with my head?' _Cato refuses to consider the possibility of actually _having_ the brain damage Brutus mentioned in his previous visit, for the suggestion makes his stomach turn. _'Isn't my arm punishment enough?' _

His mentor remains oblivious to his inner turmoil, as usual.

"Testy, testy! You're in as good a mood as the last time I saw you," Brutus takes a long moment to eye Cato's crippled arm, saying, "But unfortunately, you still look just about as shitty."

"What do you want?"

'_Get out of here, so I can shut the lights off and wait for the throbbing in my brain to stop.'_

Brutus gestures towards the bottle on the floor, slightly dented from its prior flight at Cato's head. "Oi, don't you know when someone gives you a gift?"

"Funny way to give someone a gift," Cato grumbles, reaching for the bottle.

'_What is it with people and gifts lately?'_

Cato picks it up, gives it a shake, and then breaks the seal and opens up the lid.

"Pills?"

"For your pretty head."

Cato snaps the lid back on and goes to toss the pills away before Brutus even finishes his sentence.

"Whoa, hey, what do you think you're doing?" Brutus says .

"You're so smart, why don't you tell me?" Cato walks over to the compartment's trash bin, dangles the pill bottle over the top, and then promptly drops the bottle in.

His mentor whistles low in his throat. "Wouldn't have done that if I were you."

"And why not? I don't need anything from you, especially when it comes in shady looking bottles," Cato snaps back, "And now that's over with, why don't you just go?"

"That bottle didn't come from me, it came from the hospital," Brutus explains to him as if he were talking to a young child rather than an eighteen-year-old killer. "I was told to give them to you. You're welcome."

"I've been out of the hospital ward for over a week and I'm supposed to believe they're just giving them to you now?"

"Suspicious little cripple, aren't you now? Well, I'll have you know that I have better things to do than deliver stuff to you as your errand boy. It's a busy life, being a victor," Brutus tells him, weaving his barbs under large drownings of honey. "I didn't do anything with them, if that's what you're worried about. You broke the seal yourself, didn't you? Yes? Then you know the bottle wasn't tampered with. Don't think so highly of yourself, third place."

"…what are they for?" Cato relents just enough for another self-important smirk to crack across Brutus's face.

"_Now _he asks what they're for," Brutus announces dramatically, bringing one finger up to tap against the side of his temple. "It's for your headaches. The green are for your worse days, the white for lesser days. The medics told me that it'll help to control them, somewhat."

"Somewhat?"

"That's what I said, didn't I? Or are you going deaf now too? Should I start to shout? Poor baby."

Cato ignores him. "How often a day?"

"Medic said anywhere up to four pills a day, I think."

"And the side effects?"

"Nothing crazy. Maybe some nausea, chills, the occasional bout with constipation, but for the love of all that's good in this world, don't tell me if you happen to come down with that."

The younger boy eyes him distrustfully, switching his gaze from the bottle of pills, over to Brutus himself, and then back to the waste bin. "And I'm supposed to believe you?"

"I was your mentor, you know. The whole 'wanting to help you' bit does kind of go with the job, even though I obviously didn't do as good of a job with helping you figure out how to win." When Cato's expression doesn't change, Brutus laughs. "Take them, don't take them, it doesn't matter to me. Just don't come whining when your head hurts."

"The sound of your obnoxious voice is more than enough for that."

"Ouch! That's cold, Cato," Brutus tells him as he heads for the door. "Well, my job here is done. See you in District 2, you little shit."

"Yeah, well, screw you too, Brutus."

Alone in the room, Cato carefully lifts the bottle from the trash. He pops off the lid again and examines the contents for foul play, but doesn't find any. The pills lay within their container innocently enough, some light green and others chalky white, both oval-shaped.

Ultimately, whether it is to prove to Brutus that he doesn't fear him, or lessen the painful motivation of the headache wailing against his frontal lobes, he decides to try one.

'_Brutus said that the light green are for worse days, right? I don't think it can get any worse than this.' _Cato shakes a light green pill from the bottle into his waiting hand and slips it into his mouth and down his throat.

For really, what else does he have left to lose? Already a disappointment, already a failure, already more gone than present—what is left besides gaining some relief from his pain?

The gamble pays off. Roughly twenty minutes later, the headache calms from its rampage within the walls of his skull, and Cato gets a much needed reprieve.

At least until Clove appears.

* * *

><p>::<p>

"So Brutus really did plant those pills to kill me."

The shade of the dead girl looks spitefully back at him, out of place against the backdrop of the train car she'd abruptly dissolved into. "Don't be stupid, you're not dead."

"But you are, Clove," Cato tells her quietly.

"As if I could forget, you big blond idiot," the dark haired girl scowls.

"So if I'm not dead, then why am I able to see you?"

Clove's shade disappears from view and then reappears by his side, much to close for his own comfort. Bringing one fingertip up, she taps Cato against the side of his head. Her image is fuzzy around the edges, the colors bleeding out and fading in, as if barely held together. "It's your brain, don't you listen to your doctor?"

He will never admit it, especially to his dead partner, but his stomach drops in perfect unity with his sputtering heart. "So it's true? I'm fucked up in the head?"

Clove laughs, the sound breezy and carefree. It grates on his nerves. "How should I know? You're the one talking to someone who's already dead."

But Cato doesn't want to believe her, or it, or whatever is in front of him. "I knew I shouldn't have taken those pills, I just knew it."

"Pills?" Clove questions, "You've seen me before this, or did you forget already our little chat at the hospital?"

Cato's body goes numb. _'Not the pills…? Before, in the hospital…oh. Oh shit.'_

"So now you remember, huh?" Clove smiles, revealing teeth that resemble her precious knives. "Look at you, losing not only your mind but yourself in the process. I'm very disappointed in you."

He doesn't answer in hope that if he refuses to play along it will make the shade go away. But she doesn't, advancing on whatever little space remained between their bodies and placing her hand over his heart.

"Did you forget so quickly about your true nature? You don't sit around and take shit from Brutus, you don't hold emotionally touchy-feely conversations with filth like Katniss Everdeen," Clove's cold eyes widen with a vicious light. "You're a killer, Cato. You'll always be a killer! Have you forgotten already?"

Without warning she rips into his flesh with her fingernails, tearing through muscle and skin, blood and bone, against the backdrop of his screams until she reaches his heart.

"Let me remind you, dear partner, about the pain you're supposed to be bringing."

And then she twists.

Cato doesn't remember much after that, for the world goes out of focus for a while before it shifts back in again. Clove is gone and he's alone. Perfectly, laughably alone in the luxurious train compartment, his harsh breathing the only noise in the room.

There is no mark on his chest when he checks the spot he felt her nails carve a hole through his chest. The skin, unblemished and whole, stretches milk-white over a heart that won't slow its rapid beating.

'_Just what the hell was **that?**' _

The only explanation he has is one he's not willing to accept.

::

* * *

><p>When your mind is the enemy, how can you hope to win?<p>

* * *

><p>::<p>

**My new plan is to attempt to write shorter chapters in exchange for faster updates (even though it's going to completely mess up the titles of the chapters). I would rather avoid another two month lapse. **

**Also, thank you so much for everyone who took the time to review! I wasn't sure how much of a reception this story would receive since it had been a while. Thank you all for your kind words and I hope you continue to enjoy it! **


	10. And

"At first one, then another, then almost every member of the crowd touches the three middle fingers of their left hand to their lips and holds it out to me. It is an old and rarely used gesture of our district, occasionally seen at funerals. It means thanks, it means admiration, it means good-bye to someone you love."

—_The Hunger Games, _pg. 24

**Convergence**

Chapter Ten

There are some events in life that forever render the chance at reclaiming normalcy unattainable.

No matter how much a person wants to go back.

No matter what they miss.

No matter what could have happened differently.

It doesn't change anything.

* * *

><p>::<p>

**-Two Weeks Later—**

"We won't be gone long, I promise."

Prim's anxious face peers up at her sister from the bottom of the staircase, her hands flying fast through her hair as she creates her second braid. In the background, Mrs. Everdeen calls for her youngest child to hurry up.

"Prim, I'll be fine. You don't have to worry about me," Katniss tells her reassuringly, "I understand that you and Mom have a job to do. That shouldn't have to change now that I'm back home."

"I know, but I don't like giving up any time with you."

"I like spending time with you too. But I'm home now and I'm not going anywhere anytime soon," Katniss says, "We'll have plenty of other days."

"Today is a perfect day for gardening though," Prim says sadly, "I wanted to show you all the herbs I've been growing."

"As long as you and Mom aren't needed for any emergencies tomorrow, can you show me then? I'd love to see what you've been up to."

"I wanted to show you earlier, when you first came back." Prim says, her voice revealing uncharacteristic sullenness. "But you were too busy giving interviews and having people from the Capitol filming you."

Katniss looks down at her sister, feeling guilty for something she had wanted no part of in the first place. _'Prim, I only chose them over you to keep you save.'_

"They've gone back to the Capitol, so I'm all yours until I have to leave for the Victor's Tour."

"I wish you didn't have to go back at all."

Mrs. Everdeen calls for Prim again. Spurred by her mother's prompts to hurry, Prim ignores her request and bounds up the stairs to throw her arms around her sister instead. Katniss takes the impact of the unexpected weight, rocks slightly off balance, and then recovers. She wraps her arms around her sister and rests her chin on top of Prim's head.

"You've gotten taller, little duck. If I'd come home any later, you might have given me serious competition for height."

Her words cause the little girl to clutch her sister tighter. The grip is strong for a child, and the way she squeezes is positioned just low enough to slip right under Katniss's ribs. The hug makes them ache from the pressure, but it is a pain she wouldn't trade it for anything else in Panem.

"I'm so happy you're home," Prim whispers into Katniss's shirt. The words, said so sincerely, cause the older girl's eyes to burn. "It felt like you never were going to come back."

"Oh, Prim," she says, pressing a kiss on the top of her sister's golden head, "I'm here now. I'll make it up to you for leaving, I promise."

"Make it up to me? Katniss, I don't know if I can ever make it up to you_,_" Prim pulls away just enough to look her sister in the eyes. "You saved me, Katniss. You went through all those terrible things when you didn't have to. I don't know—"

The older girl listens to her sister ramble, her throat sealing shut from emotion and her tongue a heavy, useless thing in her mouth. _'When did Prim go from a child to something more? How much did I miss…and how much of it did I cause?' _

Katniss pulls Prim close to her again, causing Prim to break off in mid-sentence in whatever she is saying. "You don't have to do anything like that for me. I did it because I love you."

"I want to be able to protect you like you protected me."

"But you already did, Prim."

"I did? How?"

"When I promised that I would return to you. It gave me something to hold onto while in the Games."

"Katniss, I—"

"**Primrose, **we _have _to go now!" Their mother calls from the front door, swatting a stray hair away from her face and shouldering a basket full of medicinal tonics. "Mr. Tomston is expecting us in five minutes at his house, and it's going to take at least ten to get there!"

Prim pulls away, and Katniss reluctantly lets her go, already feeling chilled without the younger girl's warmth. "I'm sorry," she apologizes again, "I have to go and help Mom now."

"You have responsibilities; you don't have to apologize for that. Besides, I hear that now that you're a big time healer."

The petite girl flushes. "I don't know about that. Mom's been teaching me, she says I have a knack for it."

"The citizens of District 12 are lucky to have you, little duck."

"No," Prim interjects, her eyes bright and her cheeks dusted pink, "we're the ones lucky to have you."

* * *

><p>::<p>

Katniss fights a frown when the doorbell rings, but stops when she remembers no one is around to see. The scowl then forms freely across her face from the noise. _'Stupid doorbell. Stupid house. What ever happened to regular knocking?' _

Complaining to herself, the brunette makes her way from her room and to the front door. Her feet pad silently across smooth polished wood without making a single sound. For a girl who spent so many years living in a broken down old house, the silence is continuously unnerving. _'Would it kill this house to even have a little bit of a creak?' _

Katniss throws open the door in a way Mrs. Everdeen would not deem appropriate for their new fine establishment, and she's glad her mother isn't around to scold her for it. Her frown fades away when she recognizes the face of her visitor.

"Hi, Gale."

"Hey, Catnip. You busy now?"

The silence of the house is heavy against her back and the decision is a straightforward one. "No, I'm free. You want to do something?"

He smiles and Katniss thinks of how easy it is to make him happy sometimes. Gale may be ornery with most people, even on occasion with Katniss herself. He has a temper and a rebellious streak that isn't always so hidden anymore.

However, Gale is Gale in a feral, uncomplicated way. There have been moments when something so seemingly simplistic—a beautiful sunset, a clean kill, finding raspberries on a hot summer day—could make him smile so hard it was painful to look at him. And it is in those uncovered moments that Katniss identifies with her best friend on a level most would never have a hope at understanding.

"Want to go hunting?" Gale asks, and the happiness she felt upon seeing him at the door evaporates through her pores and into the open air. It will be hard to gather back up again.

"Not today, Gale," Katniss answers quietly, as she has all the other days he has come to her door since her return back home. He never gives up, and she finds it more difficult each time to turn him down.

"Then how about taking a walk?"

"Not if it's going to take up the time you need to hunt. It's your day off from the mines."

"It'll be okay. We'll only go for a bit."

"Are you sure?"

"Wouldn't ask if I wasn't, so let's go."

Katniss locks the door behind her and joins Gale outside. They fall in step with one another as they walk, with no particular destination in mind.

"I still can't get over that fancy new house of yours, Catnip. I have to remind myself of where to go when I want to see you. It's weird that you've moved."

"I have to remind myself too," Katniss snorts, "Otherwise I end up walking back toward the old house."

"It must be nice, eh? Realizing there's something better to come back to."

From how the two friends talk about the house in question, any passerby would assume it would be nothing short of a mansion. In actuality, the house is no such thing. It is a basic two story house made from rich solid wood and sturdy stone. The roof is the color of strawberries wet from rain and it has a porch in the front that faces out to the road. There is even a little swing in which Mrs. Everdeen takes her nightly tea in, enjoying the warm summer air.

There is nothing about this house that would make it stand out. Nothing spectacular, nothing marvelous, nothing grand. It is just a solidly built little house, one that has no cracks in the roof, missing floorboards, or decay infesting within the walls. It is a palace in comparison to where the Everdeen family used to inhabit.

"Haymitch lives in one just like it next door," Katniss mutters, uncomfortable.

"Yeah, but you're the only two living in that area. Doesn't that make you kind of uppity now that you have your own private part of the neighborhood?" Gale jokes, but the girl next to him doesn't laugh.

"Still not happy with it?"

Katniss stiffly shrugs her shoulders. "Mom and Prim love it. I suppose that is what counts in all of this."

"You should be happy too, though. They wouldn't want you living somewhere you're miserable."

"That's why they don't know."

Gale looks at her in surprise. "You've been hiding it from them?"

"I don't want them to worry about me more than they already do. It's like they are always looking to make sure that I'm here or that I'm smiling. Making sure that I'm still normal."

"It's okay to be honest with them. They're your family. They know you've been through a lot, you don't have to pretend."

"A lot has changed, that's all," Katniss refuses to meet Gale's eyes, staring straight ahead, "I just need to get used to it."

"That strange being home again?"

"Yes and no," she says, "It's more disturbing seeing how life goes on, even when I wasn't there to be a part of it. Seeing how Prim's grown, how even my mother has become responsible, it's like I'm learning it all fresh at the same time I'm trying to catch up."

What she doesn't tell Gale is how it's been eating away at her to be home in District 12. _'I thought the only place in the world I wanted to be was back here, but now it's become almost unbearable. Some people treat me as a hero—for what? Killing? Not dying? Staying alive just long enough to outlast someone else?' _

And then there are those who treat her as if she is a pariah, something dangerous and deadly and no longer quite human. They stare and they mutter as she passes by, cringing as if they sense the ghosts that follow her and expect an arrow to the knee if they so much as make eye contact. _'Watch out for that girl,' _she's heard them say, _'Death has placed its mark on her.' _

What she doesn't tell Gale is that it's not only they way people treat her that has changed, but how Katniss herself has changed. She sees the world differently than she did before, having lived no better than an animal and hunted down by her peers. People are always checking to see if she's normal, if she's fine, if she's happy, if she's really alright.

What she doesn't tell Gale is the truth that she'll never be alright and never be normal, not in the way normal once meant. So she pretends that she is, even on the days she wishes she could just curl up in a ball and cry, just to keep her loved ones smiling.

What she doesn't tell Gale is that when she hears the birds, she thinks of Rue and grieves. She finds Glimmer through the hum of bees and Marvel within the laughing boy down by the river. Thresh is encapsulated in the barrels of grain by the bakery and Clove a bashed in piece of fruit that has fallen to the wayside and stepped on by many feet.

Katniss doesn't tell Gale about all the things he'll never be able to understand. She just bottles everything up instead.

"So why don't you like the house, Catnip?"

"Difficult to like a house bought through the blood of tributes," Katniss states flatly. _'And if I made one different decision, one wrong move, my blood could have been contributed to the fund.' _

"That's one way of looking at it," Gale winces, "I'm sure other tributes might think differently."

'_How would you know what a tribute thinks, Gale? You've never had to be one,' _Katniss muses darkly to herself as she says, "Not sure about that. Just look at the Mellark family. They didn't leave their bakery to come up to the Victor's Village."

Her best friend can't hide the jealously that pinches the corners of his mouth at the mention of the name Mellark. Katniss chooses to ignore this, for an opening is all Gale needs to tell her something she's known for ages, but doesn't wanted to touch.

Before the Games, before she had been sucked into a hell that was shaped within the contours of a glass bowl, Katniss might have loved Gale in the way he wants. It only made sense for them to be together, for they already were in every other way. But the old Katniss died, a causality of the Games, and the new one far too changed from the girl Gale once knew. Changed, but not changed enough.

The last thing she needs is to distance another boy through a confession of unrequited love.

"Just how is Mellark these days?" Gale treads carefully, testing to see how she will react. "From how you two were on screen, I'd figured I would have to pry you away from him to get some time with my best friend."

'_If only you knew, Gale.' _It is another thing that Katniss keeps from him, and one she's not willing to share. Sharing would be betraying Peeta. "He's getting used to being home, that's all. It's an adjustment."

"I didn't mean anything by it. I asked since I only see you together in town, always out in public, but never beyond that. I didn't think—argh, just forget it. What am I saying?" Gale's face reddens , color heating up his neck to resemble a sort of spotty rash.

"I'm usually wondering that about you myself."

"I'll choose to ignore that last statement. To change the subject before I embarrass myself further, did you hear about District 11?"

Katniss goes still. "What about District 11?"

"I've been hearing whispers about an uprising growing there," The boy next to her swats away an insect that comes flying at his face, smacking the bug hard enough so it hits the ground and doesn't rise up again. "Capitol's trying to keep it under wraps. Wouldn't be good for news like that to be getting out, you know? Not for the Capitol."

"No," she agrees, a buzzing in her ears that isn't generated from an insect, "that wouldn't be good at all. What else do you know?"

"Not much beyond that. But be careful, okay?" Further up the road, a trio of District 12 women appear, and the sighting causes Gale to lower his voice. "If there is an uprising going on, you don't want to be connected with it, Catnip. I just got you back."

The two friends walk along the path to the town, overtaking the other District 12 citizens who all make a point to stop and speak with Katniss. She is polite to all of them, though her voice sounds nowhere near genuine.

Despite all of her secrets, what bothers her the most is that Gale can't tell the difference.

* * *

><p>::<p>

When Peeta find them, Katniss and Gale are by the marketplace vegetable stand, debating with a shopkeeper over the price of a slightly musty head of lettuce.

Emerging down from the steps of his family's bakery, Peeta calls out her name as he approaches them. A bakery apron is thrown over his shoulders and cinched around his waist in a messy knot. He holds a white paper bag in his hands and a streak of flour dots his cheek.

"Hi Katniss. Hello Gale," Peeta says as he reaches where they stand. The brunette feels Gale stiffen at her side as Peeta pulls her in for a hug, and she can't help but think how awkwardly awful this moment is.

Peeta's hug is empty and he does it all for show, fixed fake smile and all. Even when nursing a broken heart, Peeta upholds his part in keeping up the pretense. He is hurting and angry—_angry enough to do things he would have never considered before—_but most of all, he is in love with a girl who can't decide if she loves him back.

"Hi Peeta," Katniss says more brightly than she feels, "What are you up to today?"

"I've been helping my parents out at the bakery. The Mayor placed a large order of cakes and pastries for a party he's hosting, and added on a request for an additional fifteen platters of cookies at the last minute," Peeta smiles, but it doesn't come through in his eyes. Katniss feels its loss, a regrettable pang for something she once not too long ago took for granted.

"Your parents must be going crazy."

"Yeah, they are. Mom's been yelling all day, so that only makes things worse," Peeta pushes back some of the hair that has fallen in his eyes, causing a little _poof _of white flour to take to the air.

"That must put a lot more stress on you," Gale comments, though he doesn't look like he cares very much at all. _'Probably not.' _

"I have to go back, they need me in there. But Katniss, could you do me a favor and take this to Haymitch?"

Katniss reaches out to accept the package without even asking what it holds. If Peeta needed a favor, then Katniss would do it, no questions asked. Gale, however, has no such qualms.

"What's in the bag?"

"Fresh bread," the baker boy explains, "My dad's been baking loaves for Haymitch every day since we've gotten back. I think it's his way of thanking him for helping me during the Games."

Gale doesn't spot it, but Katniss catches the sarcastic tone that saturates Peeta's voice as he sneers over the word 'help.' She's clearly not the only one Peeta has issues with, and she wonders if Haymitch even cares. _'I hope he does_.'

"I've been taking it to him myself," Peeta continues, "but it's just too crazy today with the Mayor's order. Dad insists on making sure that Haymitch gets the bread, and since you live over in the Victor's Village now, can you just bring it to him on your way back?"

"Okay," she agrees easily, "no trouble at all. That's very kind of your father, I'm sure Haymitch appreciates it."

"The only thing Haymitch appreciates is alcohol, and we both know that."

Gale laughs, and he is the only one to do so.

"Well, I better get back. They need me," Peeta says as Mr. Mellark himself steps outside the bakery and gestures expressively for his son to return. Peeta flushes through his flour at the display.

"I understand, don't let us keep you."

"Alright, I'll see you around," Peeta tells her, and quickly gives her another stiff, disjointed hug.

"See you around, Peeta," she calls softly to his retreating back

Mr. Mellark waves to them from the bakery steps as his son rejoins him. The older man shouts something at the pair, winks, and then ushers Peeta back behind the bakery doors.

"What did Mr. Mellark say?" Katniss asks blankly.

"Something about bringing him squirrels."

"Oh. That."

"Yes, that." Gale grasps her by the shoulders and forces him to face him. Ignoring the crowds of people milling about, he asks her frankly, "Speaking of squirrels, I'm just going to ask you straight out instead of avoiding it like I've been doing. Why don't you hunt anymore?"

"Gale…"

"No, no more avoidance. You can tell me why, you know that, right?" When she doesn't answer, Gale plows on ahead anyway as if she had. "Do you not like hunting anymore?"

"It's not that, I still like it. I wouldn't be here without it."

"Then what is it? Why won't you go into the woods with me anymore?"

Katniss looks him dead in the eyes, stuck between offering a lie and telling the truth. What she has tried to tell him about the Games before didn't go over with much success. He didn't understand, not in the way she needed. Since returning home, she quickly realized that telling people how she really felt and thought only caused them pain, and it didn't make her feel any better for sharing. Neither party would know what to say, for really, what is there to say after something like that?

She doesn't blame Gale for not giving her what she needs, for she's not even sure what's she's looking for herself. Even with all they have in common, Gale doesn't understand because he didn't have to experience the Games. She would never wish such an understanding on her best friend.

But Gale stands there, looking into her face as if he could pull an answer from her, and she decides to give him a bit of the truth.

"When I'm in the woods, it reminds me too much of being back in the Games."

Though Gale doesn't know it, her short sentence gleams with so much more beneath the surface: _'Because the Capitol turned my sanctuary into something tainted, something bad. When I'm in the forest, I am constantly looking around to see if someone is getting ready to kill me. And when I draw my bow, ready to kill, the animal in front of me starts to look less like an animal and more like a person.' _

The tall boy opens his mouth and then closes it. "So you hate the woods now?"

"No, not at all. I'm just getting used to a normal life. It's not so simple to transition back after surviving in the Games to being a regular person again."

"I see what you're saying, I really do. But can you blame me when I say I miss my hunting partner?" Gale ventures. He doesn't realize what he's doing, but the implication of his words, to _be normal_ again, add another weight to Katniss's already burdened shoulders.

"We'll be bringing back a deer before you even know it," she promises, "Give me some time, Gale?" '_Please.' _

"Of course, Catnip," he says, placated, "Someone's going to have to help you with that deer, and who better for that than me?"

* * *

><p>::<p>

The walk back to the Victor's Village from the main center of town isn't that long, but the way Katniss slowly plods her way up the path makes it take much longer. Gale had said his goodbyes not long after their conversation about the woods. He needed to finish a few errands before the next day found him buried underground, filling his lungs with the dust of the earth.

So Katniss makes the walk alone, but solitude isn't something that she minds. She keeps the bag of bread nestled against her chest, tucked in the crook of her arm, and draws the serenity of the summer day into her skin. The sun is hot against her face, and Katniss wishes she could soak the warmth up and into her soul.

'_Mom and Prim must still be gone,' _she thinks as she approaches the Village, _'otherwise Prim would have busted down the door, scolding me for going off without leaving a note.' _

She follows the path, passing by her family's new house and the garden of summer flowers Prim so recently planted. Haymitch's house, though identical in build, lacks the feeling of being a home. Mrs. Everdeen and Prim don't quite get it, having discussed the topic over the dinner table several nights ago, but Katniss sympathizes. How could she judge him when she feels the same way about her own prize?

She walks up the porch steps, shuffles the bread bag over to her other arm, and opens Haymitch's front door. Katniss doesn't bother to knock.

"Haymitch!" She calls, closing the door behind her, "Haymitch, you home?"

The man in question doesn't answer, but there is movement coming from the kitchen area down the hall. Frowning, she is about to call out again when Haymitch finally answers her.

"I'm in the—damn. Hang on, stay right there."

Haymitch appears a few moments later looking vaguely perturbed. He adjusts the collar on his shirt, smoothing down the fabric so it lays straight. "Is something wrong, Katniss? If not, would you mind visiting later? I'm in the middle of something."

"I'm not staying long, just dropping this off," she indicates to the bag she holds in her hand. "Do they really bake for you every day?"

"Who..?"

Katniss eyes him skeptically, since the bag clearly has the logo of the bakery stamped onto it. "I'm talking about the Mellarks. They bring you bread now?"

"They do, yes," He says distractingly. "Thank you for the bread."

"I didn't bake the bread, so you shouldn't be thanking me."

"Hm?" Haymitch asks. "Oh, I mean the Mellarks."

Katniss crosses her arms across her chest, nonplussed. "Just how drunk are you?"

This brings Haymitch's attention back onto her. He squints, as if seeing her for the first time throughout the entire conversation.

"No, I'm not drunk," he says testily, "So kind of you to immediately think so."

"Not that you give me any reason to think otherwise, usually."

"As much as I love to listen to you compliment me for my virtues and thank me on a bended knee for saving your life, I need to take care of a few things. I'll have to pick this conversation back up with you at another time."

'_Haymitch is definitely not acting like himself,' _she thinks suspiciously. _'Could he have finally reached the level of drunkenness where he doesn't even realize he's drunk?' _But her mentor's eyes, despite several broken capillaries around the pupils, are clear from the haze of alcohol.

"Alright," she agrees, "I'll come by to see you tomorrow then."

"Yes, that's fine. See you tomorrow then." Haymitch grants her a quick smile, shows her out, and closes the door. _'Effie would be so proud of his manners.' _

Katniss is halfway down the porch steps when she realizes Haymitch never took the bread. _'Drat! I certainly don't want this.' _

Sighing, she enters the house again, walks down the hallway, and heads for the kitchen. "Haymitch," she calls, "you forgot the bread!"

"Why not just throw it out?"

And then she stops.

Because the person who answers isn't Haymitch.

It's Cato.

::

* * *

><p>There is only so long a person can pretend that an old life fits in a new skin.<p>

And then they can't pretend anymore.

* * *

><p>::<p>

**Hi, all! To answer one anon's question, as far as eye color goes, I usually try and stick with the source material canon. I don't think Cato's eye color is mentioned in the books, so I gave him blue eyes to match with how he is represented in the film.  
><strong>

**I'm doing my best to keep them all in character as well as I can, so I truly appreciate all those who said they're not terribly OOC. And a very large thank you to everyone who reviewed! It definitely gives me a ton of motivation to try and get another chapter out quickly.  
><strong>


	11. Katniss

"Why don't they just kill him?" I ask Peeta. "You know why," he says, and pulls me closer to him.

-_The Hunger Games, _pg. 339

**Convergence**

Chapter Eleven

Moments link into memories, becoming interwoven.

Tied together, they build a chain of connections with rungs of pleasure and pain.

It all runs seeping, bleeding, screeching change.

Some adapt. Some don't survive.

* * *

><p>::<p>

The clock chimes to announce the coming of noon as Finnick opens the door and enters into the small cottage. Rolling his shoulders to work out the kinks within his muscles, the twitch at the corner of his eyes speaks volume about the lack of sleep he's been getting.

Still in the hallway, Finnick makes sure to check the mirror before he proceeds any further. He lets out a long, low sigh as he takes in his reflection, examining the red around his pupils and the tiny wrinkles, formed from stress, that have ever so slightly snuck up on him. He trails his gaze down from his eyes and crosses the planes of his face, stopping when he reaches the slope of his neck.

'_Ah, hell. Why do they always feel like they have to leave a mark in such an obvious place?' _Finnick reaches up to rub the hickey that stains his neck. It is a furious kaleidoscope of dark maroon, a painful testament to last night's activities.

Reaching for the old tube of lipstick—the one Annie used to use back before she was chosen, the color pink and lush on her lips when she actually cared about how she looked—Finnick positions the butt of the tube against the angry bruise. Using the hard surface, Finnick massages the skin with enough force to ease the blood that has risen to the surface of his skin back down.

It is a process he has done more times than he can remember, and at least it saves him from wearing their marks so prominently on his skin. Finnick is by no means stupid—he knows exactly why so many of his lovers choose to spend the effort in giving him such a parting gift after a night together. _'They do it to show that they've had me, that they've owned me. But I can easily erase them away, so the joke's on them.' _At least that's what he tells himself. Finnick may be smart, but he can't admit that the joke is more often than not on him.

Satisfied that he's done as much as he can with the hickey that bleeds like a sore across his neck, he hikes his collar up to cover whatever is left of the bruise and heads into the bedroom down the hall.

Despite the summer weather, Finnick opens the bedroom door to find Annie buried under a quilt on their bed. No matter how often Finnick attempts to persuade her to use lighter sheets in the hot air, Annie won't have it. He worries one day she'll suffer from a heat stroke, but he never forces her to change her mind. Sleeping made Annie nervous. It forces her to drop her guard against the world for a few, vulnerable hours. To the best of his ability, Finnick determines that the sleeping with the heavy, thick blanket serves as a much better defense in Annie's mind over the thin summer sheets Finnick so heavily advocates for.

The only time Annie sleeps without the quilt is when Finnick is home at night. But Finnick isn't home at night very often. They both try and avoid talking about why.

Annie is tucked under the quilt with only the very top of her head peaking out against the pillows. With a gentleness most people have never seen attributed to the District 4 victor, Finnick draws back the quilt from Annie's face. Immediately Annie's eyes snap open, a wild look exploding within them. She shoots up from her pillows, the quilt falling down and away from her body. Her hair hums with static from sleep, the strands sticking up this way and that. It only enhances her mad girl image.

But Finnick doesn't see a mad girl. He sees his lover, the only one he really wants.

"Shh, Annie, it's just me," he says softly, smoothing down her frazzled hair, "I'm sorry I scared you." He brings his hand from her hair to cup her cheek, the action causing her to nuzzle against his palm as she calms.

"It's okay," she tells him.

He rubs his thumb across her cheekbone. Her skin is soft under his touch, pure in a way he feels his will never be again. Not with the marks they leave. "I'm also sorry I'm back late. I didn't think I would get home at noon."

"It's okay," she says again, "it's not your fault."

No matter how many times she tells him this, he never quite believes her. How could he? They both knew very well what he is doing while he was gone.

Finnick sits down on the bed and pulls Annie into a long, long hug that he hopes conveys all the apologies he wishes to give her, but doesn't. She didn't have any need for them. Finnick nearly jumps out of his skin as Annie touches the side of his neck with the tip of her finger.

"You missed one."

Finnick feels his stomach sink at her solemn words, cursing himself for not being observant enough before he went to see Annie. He reaches hand to cover the spot she points at, but her slim hand catches his.

"Finn," she says for the third time, "It's okay."

He closes his hand around hers, clenching the palms together and squeezing as hard he can without hurting her. "No," he tells her, "it's not."

She doesn't say anything in response, content to have his hand around hers in a promise of safety.

"Annie, things are starting to move," Finnick ventures to his lover.

"Move how?"

"The Districts are starting to grow brave," he tells her cautiously, unsure how she will react to the news. He knows she knows what he means.

Annie doesn't hesitate. Running the pad of her thumb over the ridge of his knuckles, she does a mental count of the number of scars that will forever mark them. They are not the same hands she knew when they were children years ago, and they don't belong to the same person. But she isn't the same person either.

"Finn," she tells him, "I guess we'll have to be brave again too."

* * *

><p>::<p>

Arriving off the train and onto the District 12 platform is an embarrassing, sordid affair that ends with Brutus threatening him to get off the train before he is forcefully carried off in a manner that would cause "the citizens of District 12 talk about it for years."

'_I don't want to be here.' _

And he wouldn't be, if given the choice. Brutus heckles him along anyway.

His head aches as much as his pride.

Cato's first look at town, taking in the ragged houses and sad, pitiful excuse for a hub, almost causes him to burst out laughing. The people milling about are as gray as the dust they work in, their bodies limp and lifeless beneath their clothes. The roads aren't the paved elegance Cato is used to, instead comprised of stretching packed dirt that lead seemingly nowhere. Chickens roamed freely, chased by children who would no doubt take the animal home for supper if they managed to catch one.

'_People live like this? Seriously?'_

Everything about the District shrieks of poverty down to the very bones. For someone born into District 2 splendor, such a life is beyond normal comprehension.

'_No wonder it's rare for the Capitol to show anything to do with the outlying Districts on the holos—why would they want to be associated with this dump?' _

He plods behind Brutus, who has begun the trek along the fringes of the main town area. Shouldering the bag he carries, Cato is unable to retract the morbid fascination he feels while looking around. '_Loverboy and 12 came from here? No wonder they looked right at home in the mud and filth—they were more used to it than I ever imagined.' _Cato almost laughs again at the absurdity of it all, but he doesn't when he remembers why he's actually there. It sobers him up instantly.

He pauses a moment, massaging his aching temples, and then reaches into the bag for his bottle of pain medication. Shaking the tube, he takes the green-tinged pill which drops out and swallows it dry.

"Oi, Cato! If you don't move a bit quicker I'm going turn around and leave you to find it allllllll on your own," Brutus calls from over his shoulder, "and then, of course, watch you bumble around in secret."

"Shut your mouth, Brutus," Cato retorts, angrily snapping the cap back on the bottle and replacing it in his bag.

"As if you could make me," Brutus taunts, "Besides, I guess I can't blame you for having a look around, after all. This is a place for broken things, and you're just as broken as they come. In fact I encourage you to take a look around, especially now tha—"

"I told you to shut up!" Cato swiftly bend down and scoops up the first rock he can get his good hand on—_it's not as if District 12 has a shortage of them—_and the hurls it at Brutus's back. His aim is off, his left hand unable to match the direction his brain intends, and it bounces off Brutus's shoulder instead.

Brutus whirls around the moment the rock comes in contact with the older man's skin. He moves quicker than Cato would have previously given him credit for, lunging forward and twisting Cato's crippled arm behind his back. The contortion of the stiff scar tissue that lines his arm screams in agony and Cato bites his tongue in order not to cry out in the way Brutus wants.

Brutus uses his other arm to force Cato to look him in the face. Anger is snapping around his body, the emotion so strong it is almost palpable to the naked eye. Brutus's eyes hold no remorse for the pain he is currently inflicting on Cato, no sympathy. There is only pure, unadulterated fury—the eyes of a man so easily pushed over the edge.

"You do that again," Brutus hisses, "and I'll make you beg for death."

The tortured muscles of his arm flare blindingly in his mind, his body begging for him to agree with whatever Brutus has said in order to make it stop. His mind, however, calls for rebellion, just to see the rage double on Brutus's face at his defiance.

"You hear me, you little shit?" Brutus increases the pressure on his arm, and Cato really does cry out this time.

"Yes," Cato snarls at him, his own anger and frustration for being so fucking weak, so opposite from what he once was, overwhelming to the degree he could choke on it.

"Good," Brutus says, releasing Cato's arm. Without warning, he pulls back his fist and punches the younger boy in the face.

The punch is hard, and leaves a mark. Wincing, Cato spits a wad of saliva mixed with the hazy color of his blood onto the dusty road. The dirt soaks up the saliva, but leaves the blood behind. It gleams as a contradiction in sunshine.

"Now, as I was saying before so rudely interrupted, don't you just love all District 12 has to offer?" Brutus says as he resumes his walk back up the road, "Fitting for the typical loser, don't you agree? Hey, look at that!"

Brutus points out everything that is broken about District 12, laughing and mocking as he goes. Gone are the traces of the madman with the uncontrollable rage. Only the sarcastic persona is left in place, the one that serves as a mask to hide what simmers beneath.

Cato expects no less from his mentor.

Brutal, bloody Cato, they'd called him.

Well, he had to learn his brutal, bloody ways from someone.

* * *

><p>::<p>

Haymitch takes one look at the pair on his porch and then promptly shuts his door. _'What the hell is going on? There is no possible way that those two are here right now. No way, absolutely not.' _

The knock at the door comes again, and when Haymitch doesn't answer, the doorbell begins to incessantly ring. The shrill noise drives its way into his eardrums and it isn't long until Haymitch takes a breath and a swig from the bottle nearby, opening the door again.

"Brutus. Cato. What have I done to in order to earn myself the visit?"

Brutus slaps his meaty fist onto the edge of the door frame, blocking the door in case Haymitch decides to slam it shut again. "Not a very nice way to treat people who've traveled a long way to visit you."

"Well, you'll have to excuse my manners since I wasn't expecting the visit."

Brutus sighs, shrugging his shoulders in dramatic fashion. Haymitch keeps a watchful eye on his every movement. Cato doesn't say anything at all, looking off to the side as if he'd rather be anywhere but the place he stood. _'That's probably not very far from the truth, either.' _

"Ah, it's alright. You're District 12 after all, only so much to be expected from your kind of people," Brutus sneers, "The least you can do is let us in."

'_As if you'll give me a choice.' _Haymitch eyes the bruise that has surfaced along Cato's lower jaw. He nods towards it, asking, "Your handiwork, I presume?" The mark is certainly big enough to have come from one of Brutus's fists.

"Of course. You're not the only one who lacks manners, Haymitch. District 2 just enforces it a bit better than you do here, otherwise it's a very natural occurrence. Now, are you going to let us in or are we to stand out here all day?"

Haymitch grants the bruise a final look and then gives it no further thought. What District 2 does is none of his concern. In fact, he has enough of his own problems than to worry about the shortcomings of another District's violent lifestyle. Cato might have been on the receiving end this time, but the probability of Cato treating his own future tribute the same way is an outcome Haymitch is willing to bet on. Careers know nothing else.

"By all means, please come in."

* * *

><p>::<p>

From his seat at the small kitchen table, Cato watches Haymitch the entire time Brutus talks. The man clearly doesn't like what he is hearing, but he keeps his face perfectly blank. Cato would give him full points for the mask he wears, except the rigid stance of his body and the agitated way his fingers twitch betray how he really feels.

'_Trust me, old man, I don't like it very much myself.' _It is all very mortifying, listening to Brutus spare no detail in front of the District 12 victor. He is also angry, so very angry, at himself and at the world.

Clove rests against the side of the oven, her arms crossed as she intently listens to the conversation. She is still out of focus and hazy, more gone than actually present. But she is solid enough not to be ignored.

"So this is a house for a victor? Pah, I think the rats in District 2 live better," Clove scoffs. "Should have known that the drunk wouldn't be awarded the same classy locations an inner District victor would be."

Cato ignores the shade, or whatever she is. Clove has appeared in and out of his life since their confrontation on the train. Sometimes she sticks around for a while, other times she fades in and out without a word, appearing and disappearing within a blink of an eye. He sincerely hoped that now will be one of those times.

He quickly learned that he is the only one who can see her, which only adds more stones to his sinking stomach. _'I refuse to accept that there is something wrong with my brain…there just can't be.' _But walking, talking, insulting Clove is proof enough that something is not all quite right—another weakness he can't afford.

He keeps the evidence of his defect away from Brutus and the rest of the world. Cato already has enough problems without letting those around him think he's going crazy. He doesn't want to see the way they would undoubtedly react if he were to share, as if he were some poor mad boy who couldn't handle the pressure of the Games. Failed both physically and mentally. A total waste.

Even when he very well may be—_no, it is still up for debate_.

'_I don't need anyone else to know. I already know it myself, isn't that that enough?'_

Clove remains oblivious to his inner debate, or maybe she does know and blatantly doesn't care. She flexes her fingers, as if itching for violence, and says, "Hey Cato, you're even more of a lost cause than I thought. Who would've guessed that this would happen to the best in our class?"

Cato keeps his gaze focused on the two men that stand in conversation on the other side of the room, refusing to look at the shade and draw attention to himself and his problem.

"Don't you see how far you've fallen from everything you once hoped for? Such a shame, such a pity, though I wouldn't go as far as to call it a travesty since I don't care nearly as much for that," Clove purrs venomously, "District 2 must be so proud of you."

Cato keeps his expression blank, but the fingers on his left hand clutch at the table. He digs in his nails, fighting the anger that grows with each word Clove continues to spew. _'Now is not the place. I can't lose my temper. Not here.' _

"Oh wait!" Clove brings her hand up to her mouth in an exaggerated display of shock. "They're not proud of you at all."

'_Ignore her venom. It's not worth it,' _he tells himself, wishing he has a way to get rid of her and the digs she throws. It doesn't stop the fury that boils in his veins at her words as they egg him on.

The shade has an impressive talent at making him angry.

And then he hears her voice, 12's voice, calling for her mentor from the front of the house. It breaks the hold his anger has over him, and with a disappointed frown on her face, Clove disappears back into whatever hellhole she came from.

Haymitch looks momentarily torn in light of his current situation with his unwanted house guests and the girl at his front door. He begins to call back to her and then stops short. Cato figures Haymitch would rather not involve Katniss Everdeen in this fucked up situation before he first figures out what to do with it himself. _'Good luck with that, old man. I don't think you'll come up with an answer.'_

As he goes to get rid of Katniss before she can stumble upon the little drama unfolding within the humble kitchen, Haymitch first stalks over to the table where Cato sits. Cato rests his head in the cup of his left palm and stares back up into Haymitch's clearly irritated face.

Haymitch glares down at him, and Cato stares haughtily back.

"Yes?"

The older man doesn't mince words. "I know this is a situation neither of us may like, or even be able to control."

"No shit."

" In fact, I have enough emotion left in me to be able to sympathize with your plight. It must be quite difficult for you."

Cato studies the man in front of him, wary of where he plans to go with this. "Sympathize, eh? Didn't expect that from you."

Haymitch's eyes are cold. "I said I am able to. I didn't say that I did."

"Shocker."

"Then it shouldn't surprise you when I say that I don't like you very much at all."

"Considering it's likewise, it shouldn't surprise you when I say I'm not offended. Your point?"

Haymitch leans closer. "To warn you that if you do anything to Katniss or Peeta, or their family and friends, I'll make you regret having that heart of yours beat again. I mean it, boy. I don't care what you're going through, don't give a damn. I only care about protecting them from whatever may threaten their small shot at peace. And you are one large threat."

Cato stares back, impassive. _'The death threats just keep rolling in. My lucky day. Typical District 12, expecting your warnings to do what? Frighten me?' _

"I'm going to go and deal with Katniss. She doesn't need to know about this just yet," Haymitch continues, "so stay here and keep your mouth shut."

Satisfied he has said what he needs, the District 12 victor sweeps out of his kitchen and then proceeds to have a somewhat stupid conversation—in Cato's not so humble opinion—about loaves of bread.

* * *

><p>::<p>

"Come on then, I'll show you which one it'll be," Haymitch tells them after he returns. He goes to the back door and opens it, gesturing for them to follow.

"Cato, you coming?" Brutus asks as he approaches the door.

"No thanks."

His mentor shrugs. "Suit yourself. You'll be seeing it soon enough yourself." The two older men proceed out the back door, with Haymitch warning Cato that "they'll be right back and not to wander off."

'_What does he think I am, a child? As if I'd let him boss me around.' _Alone and rebellious in the dingy kitchen, Cato bends down slightly and rummages around in the bag he has brought with him. Removing his sword and releasing it from its wrappings, he places it on top of the table, checking to see how it has survived the journey.

'_Brutus had something else coming when he suggested I leave my sword behind,' _Cato thinks, studying the weapon. His reflection gleams back, revealing the fine scars that line his face, the ones in which even the fancy Capitol doctors were unable—or refused—to remove. In the reflection, the marks almost look like they scar the metal of the sword.

"Haymitch," a voice calls from the hallway, interrupting his musing, "You forgot the bread!"

'_She came back,' _he thinks as he listens to her approaching footsteps. _'What to do?'_

Cato has no interest in facing off with the girl from 12, not under the current circumstances. He can already picture her proud face morphing into mockery once she hears the news—it is an encounter he could go without for as long as he can push it off.

But the footsteps aren't stopping, and Haymitch isn't back yet to ward her off again. His arrogance drives his to act first, to take advantage of the situation before she has the chance to turn it around on him. One more stand for his pride.

'_I bet I'm the very last person you except to find, 12. I don't take it personally, considering you're up there with the people I don't want to see.' _

Taking the opportunity in hand, he calls back, unashamed, telling her to toss the bread as she enters the kitchen. Unbridled delight courses through his veins over how the very sight of him renders her mute and dumbfounded.

'_It's a joy to see you too, really.' _

Cato allows himself one superior wave in her direction. The expression painted across her face almost makes the entire situation worth it.

Almost.

* * *

><p>::<p>

The sound of the blasted leaky faucet penetrates the silence between the pair. The water goes _drip, drip, drip _as it shuttles to the ground and splatters against the cool metal of the sink bottom. In correlation with every drop of water, Katniss's thoughts come in drips and drabs, building the dam.

'_Am I in the right house? No, wait, that's stupid to think. Of course it's the right house, I'm in District 12, not 2! So then why…?' _

The image of Cato + kitchen table + District 12 does not equate out properly. And why would it? _'I didn't think I'd have to see him again until the Tour. I said my goodbyes, if you could call it that. Why is he here?' _

Cato has no reason to be so far from his own District, no reason she could fathom but one—

'_He threatened to make me regret winning. He said he'll get me back where it hurts. Did he choose to make that moment now?' _

She may understand him more than she did before, but in doing so, she also understands just how far he'd go to achieve what he wants. The boy before her is dangerous, erratic. Angry. _'And he's come so far from his home, positioning himself right in the part of town where my loved ones are…has he finally lost it? Is he here to kill them? Or me?' _

Katniss stares apprehensively at the sword on the table. _'What more of a sign about his intentions do I need than that?' _

She doesn't know why he's here, but theories are flying through her mind and each is as likely as the next when it comes to someone as vindictive as Cato.

It takes her about a good thirty seconds to find her voice. And when she does, it's livid.

"Cato, what the _hell _are you doing here?

The fair haired boy never fails to disappoint. He slips under her skin and his words hold tight. With the same snarky attitude he's brazenly displayed time and time before, he tells her, "I'm clearly sitting at the kitchen table."

As he speaks, his fingers inch ever so slightly towards the sword. _'Is he getting ready to attack? Or is he preparing in case I attack him? Just what is going on? Where is Haymitch?' _Having Cato around can only mean trouble, and trouble is the last thing Katniss needs.

"I can see that," she says, her body primed to react if Cato so much as touches the weapon on the table. "But I think it's time for you to go."

"Wish I could, but can't," He idly traces a finger along the pattern of wood grain embedded within the top of the table, not far from the sword. "That mentor of yours gave me specific instructions to remain here until he comes back."

'_Does that mean he didn't hurt Haymitch then? Or is he just playing with me, waiting to attack?' _

Katniss keeps her worry over her mentor's pointed absence hidden, knowing fear would only egg Cato on further in whatever game he is playing. Fear drew Careers, they were trained to scent the stirrings and capitalize on it. She will not allow him to sink his teeth in. "Come back from where? And since when do you listen to what Haymitch has to say?"

"Oh, I don't," he grins at her wickedly before going back to his tracing, edging closer to the sword. "Not in most cases, anyway. But this time it's worth it to do so if it pisses you off."

Katniss grits her teeth, longing for a bow in her hands. If Cato went off on her—_for what other explanation did she have for his presence in District 12, the sword on the table, and his continuous vow of selective slaughter he has promised so many times?—_the bow would provide some sort of protection against the violent boy if it went ugly.

It isn't even about the sword, for even without a weapon, the Career could snap her neck. What could she, weaponless, do against such power?

She needs answers, and she needs them fast. She's done avoiding around the topic, finished with any kind of game he's playing by being in District 12. So Katniss gathers herself, her spine composed of iron, and asks him straight out.

"Are you here to kill my family?"

Cato's grin doesn't lessen, but a bit of the haughtiness within his stance fades away. His eyes blink just once at the suggestion. If she hadn't been watching him so closely, Katniss might have missed it. _'Is he surprised that I would think that?' _

"Maybe another day." His hands stop advancing towards the sword, and Katniss doesn't come up with a reason as for why. _'He could be lying, but if he's not…?' _

This picture, this scene, it isn't right. She holds a piece of it in her hands, vainly jabbing to fit it into place, but it's from another puzzle all together. It doesn't fit, no matter the angle she tries. It is a testament and a warning that all of this is wrong.

"Cato," she asks softly, "why aren't you home?"

His arrogant expression never falters, but for a moment, there's a look that passes fleetingly across his eyes that contradicts all of Cato's previous masks. All of them, that is, except for the glimpse she saw within the Training Center. It blossoms, flaring so brightly that Katniss wonders how such a thing could remain so hidden under layers of hatred and violence. And then the emotion expires, leaving no trace behind.

"You see," he tells her, "that's where the problem lies."

The leaky _drip drip drip _is relentless to their ears, but even it cannot consume away the silence.

Precious moments after Cato speaks, the back door opens to allow Haymitch and Brutus back inside the house. The prior of the two goes completely still upon seeing Katniss standing there, her expression carefully controlled. Though relieved to see her mentor alive, his lack of reaction to the situation confirms he already knew about their visitors, and failed to tell her.

'_This is why you turned me away. This is what you were busy with. You were busy dealing with them.' _

"Haymitch, do you mind telling me just what is going on?" she asks, the tone of her voice barely passing for polite. "What is Brutus doing here? Why are they in your house?"

"Your girl has quite a mouth on her. I don't know how you put up with it," Brutus laughs, and the sound gives her chills. Her instincts warn to avoid this man.

Haymitch ignores the slight, stepping closer towards Katniss in effort to gauge how much she knew. "Trust me when I say I was just as surprised as you a half hour ago."

"What is going on?"

Her mentor goes to speak, but the boy at the table cuts him off before he issues another word. Cato stares steadily at her, saying, "Your memory must be faulty, 12."

"What makes you say that?"

Cato rests his chin in the cradle of his palm, left elbow pressed against the table top. He has his crippled arm tucked beneath the table, and when he speaks, his voice is flat.

"I told you before, didn't I?"

"You've told me a lot of things. What specifically do you mean?"

Katniss doesn't follow whatever it is he's getting at, and the Career isn't willing to share any further, keeping his mouth stubbornly shut even under the pressure of her glare.

"Will somebody tell me what's going on?"

"This is getting ridiculous," Haymitch cuts in, running agitated hands down the sides of his pants. He throws twin glares over to the pair from District 2, and Katniss acknowledges that she's not the only one completely fed up with it all.

"You two don't want to say it?" Haymitch questions, "Fine, I'll do it."

Against her will, Katniss glances back over at Cato, who has turned impassive. The impression he exudes is as if he doesn't give a damn about what Haymitch is about to say, as if he doesn't care about whatever has happened.

She catches him, though, in whatever façade he currently hides behind. He gives himself away when his eyes don't quite meet hers, and she knows then that he isn't beyond caring. In fact, if she wasn't so acquainted with his cocky side, she would think the emotion that radiates around him is shame.

'_Ashamed of what?'_

"You see, Katniss, it can be best put as this," Haymitch clears his throat, pauses a movement to weigh her reaction, and then decides to drop the news on her. From the expression on his face, she knows it won't be news she is going to like.

"To put it plainly, District 2 kicked him out."

Katniss opens and closes her mouth, and the _drip, drip, drip _from the sink suddenly sounds much louder to her ears. _'I remember him telling me that on our last day at Capitol, but…' _

But she never thought it would actually _happen. _

From the way Cato digs his fingernails into the edge of the table top, Katniss seriously doubts that he did either.

She has no words to say, but Haymitch doesn't let her silence stop him. He plows on ahead, continuing as if they were talking about every day affairs instead of something of this magnitude.

"They don't want him. In fact, they want nothing to do with him since he didn't come back as a true victor, or whatever nonsense like that. In my opinion, they should consider themselves lucky to get their tribute back, victor or not. There were many other Districts who didn't."

Haymitch waits for her to answer, but what is there to even add to something like that?

Cato meets her stare when she looks over again. His proud eyes drill into hers, as if daring her to judge him.

Which is all well and good, except—

"So, why is he _here?" _

"Ah, I got this one," Brutus says as he steps in. His tone is gleeful, as she has given him a present that he'll take great joy in opening. It serves as a warning.

"You see," he says, "District 2 didn't want him, and we didn't know what to do with him."

"And out of all the places to go to, you choose District 12? You expect me to believe that?" Katniss snaps back.

"Calm yourself, Fire Girl. President Snow had to make a decision. He ruled that since you were the one to essentially save our boy here, it was time to step up and take responsibility for that."

There is a momentary pause as he runs his tongue across his lips, wetting them. The saliva glistens off the fleshy skin and gives him the look of a rabid animal. He then continues, saying, "So President Snow sent him packing to District 12, and me along as his escort until I drop him off. Mission accomplished, at least on my end."

Brutus levels a brilliant, spit-glossed smile at Katniss and Cato.

"He's your problem now, and should I say, good luck?"

The man has the further indecency to mock salute them both.

::

* * *

><p>There are moments that can make a heart scream.<p>

The scream has no sound.

* * *

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**Hi, all! To the several reviewers who called me out on it last chapter-I'm a Skyrim fan! So any knee references were purely intentional, I couldn't resist.**

**Thank you all so much for taking the time to read and review. It literally makes my day :] **


	12. To

"I stare in the mirror as I try to remember who I am and who I am not."

—_The Hunger Games, _pg. 371

**Convergence**

Chapter Twelve

It is a funny thing—

Change can find a person from one day to another, from one sentence to another. It takes the routine and the norm and shreds it thoroughly, reducing it to paper-fine pieces of its former self. Within a suspension of breath, so much and so little can alter, fraying at the seams and breaking apart. What has been left behind cannot fit back together nearly as well as it did before when it comes time to mend the fragments. No matter how carefully it is stitched back together, there will be change inseparably woven into the threads.

* * *

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Three days since Cato's arrival in District 12, a scant amount of time within his new home—_home? It will never be deserving of the title—_for the boy who is forced to give up his old one. They do not want him anymore because he is not worthy of them.

Cato grasps his sword in his left hand, forcing his body to go through the familiar drills with his unfamiliar arm, and breathes deep within his lungs. The motion of the exercise feels unnatural but he has too much invested to give up for that.

'_District 2 doesn't want me, eh?' _He slices the sword through the air. _'I will make them want me. I'll make them beg.'_ Cato whirls the weapon around, sweat running into eyes. _'And when they do, I'll make them regret excommunicating me.'_

His arm trembles from the effort, and he finds he can no longer hold the sword. Muttering curses beneath his breath, Cato pushes through the fatigue and trains until the sword slips from his grip and hits the grass below.

'_No, not yet. I don't want to go back yet,' _he thinks, reaching into the back pocket of his pants and pulling out the hand grip. _'Not to that mockery of a Victor's Village.' _

President Snow has an undeniable knack for knowing how to make the pain stick, and he has shown no less a talent when gifting Cato with the Victor's Village house that the Mellark family has given up. The notion of being Katniss Everdeen's neighbor remains as appalling as it did when he first was told about it.

He can hear them, sometimes, in the sanctity of the morning. It is inescapable—the girl from 12's voice as she greets her family, the smell of the breakfast wafting in from their open kitchen window. Cato sits next door at his own unwanted breakfast table, eating alone and yet still surrounded by the family next door. It is a reminder of what has been returned to her from her victory, as well as what has been lost to him.

'_No matter,' _he thinks, _'If it is uncomfortable for me to live next to them, I'm sure they feel just the same about me.'_ The thought gives some comfort in a reality that has left him with little else.

He didn't count on Prim.

* * *

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When Cato first encounters Prim, he is training by the edge of forest near the boundary of the gate that embraces District 12.

He doesn't notice her at first, too committed to his training drills and his anger to recognize the slight girl behind him. But Prim isn't trained to hide her presence, to watch her footsteps and control her breathing. She never had the need for it.

It doesn't take long for him to realize that she's there.

Stopping while in mid-drill, Cato faces the skinny girl who stands quietly watching him. Her eyes are blue and innocent, but nonetheless smart. Her face is familiar in a way he doesn't quite connect, and it irritates him that he can't place where he has seen her before.

"What do you want?" he asks her sharply, annoyed from the interruption.

"You're Cato, right? Cato from District 2?" the girl questions, her sharp gaze studying his face and body in a way that doesn't suit a child. He doesn't know what she's looking for, or if he'd like what she'll find.

"What is it to you?"

"I already know who you are," she admits, "but I didn't want to be rude without some sort of introduction."

"I don't care about introductions or being on a first name basis with you. Now beat it brat, I have more important things to do than waste my time standing here talking with you," he says, starting to turn around.

"I'm Primrose Everdeen," she says, "but you can call me Prim."

And then she sticks out her hand.

Cato looks from the extended hand and back up to the face of the girl who looks nothing like her sister. The child is fragile and delicate looking, as prim and proper as her name suggests.

"So you're 12's sister, eh?" He ignores her hand, which she stubbornly keeps extended.

"Yes," she says, "Katniss is my sister."

"So what are you doing here, talking with me?"

"I wanted to meet our new neighbor."

Cato scowls. "Don't call me that."

"It's true, isn't it? You're living next door to us now. So I thought I'd come say hi."

He examines the girl before him, searching for hidden motives behind her friendly words. But she appears sincere in what she says, and Cato decides the girl is either an excellent liar or really is that naïve.

This weak, soft, little girl who never fought a day in her life would have never stood a chance. It is an unhappy realization of what could have been, if only—

"You're nothing like 12," Cato tells her, his voice harsh, directing his frustration at the girl who should have been sent to die. "If you were in the Games, I would have killed you in an instant.

He steps closer to her and tightens his grip on the sweat-stained hilt of the sword. Prim finally drops her hand and backs up a single step from the monster of a boy looming in front of her. Prim then steels herself and doesn't concede any more ground to him.

"If you were in the Games, you wouldn't have lasted through the first night. I would have hunted you down, an easy kill to be made at the start of the Games before the more serious contenders had the chance," he continues, bearing down on her, "I would have found you and gutted you and left you bleeding in the dirt while your precious sister looked on from her holo screen and watched you die with her name bubbling death on your lips."

He is close to her now, and he bends down so his strained eyes are level with hers. Prim's face has gone pale, and her fingers tremble around the handle of the basket she carries. Her fear eggs Cato on.

"I would have butchered you without any regret," he whispers, "So are you still so eager to play neighbor with me now?"

Prim swallows hard, and it causes Cato to laugh callously in her face.

"That's what I thought," he says, and satisfyingly dismisses her, walking away.

He doesn't expect her to have a backbone. Prim may be soft and young, but beneath her youth is a will of iron as strong as her sister's.

"We'll never know," her voice calls from behind him, making him stop to face her once again.

"What?"

"We'll never know what you would have done, or what I would have done, had I been in the Games," Prim's face is still pale and her voice slightly high-pitched, but the words don't reflect her fear. "Katniss volunteered for me. She took my place and changed the Games. So you can't say that's what you would have done, because you were never given the chance to find out."

"Questioning my ability to kill, kid?" Cato snarls, "Because if you are, you can find out personally just how good I am at what I do."

"No," Prim says calmly, "I already know that. But you're so confident that you'd win if I played the Games."

"I would have won."

"Would you?" Prim asks. "Or maybe I could have."

"You?" Cato scoffs at such a suggestion. "You would have no shot at winning. A skinny little girl like you would have been crushed in an instant."

"You didn't think Katniss could win, right? Why can't the same go for me?"

Cato's shoulder shake with scornful laughter. "It's bad enough to have 12 as the victor. But you? That's the most ridiculous thing I've heard in a long time."

"Good thing we're only talking about maybes, right?"

"More like good for you, brat," Cato says. Katniss's sister is nothing like her in so many ways, and yet, her words show that she's not that far from her at all. The thought is slightly troubling, and not one he spends that much time dwelling on. "Now leave me alone, before big sis finds you here with me."

Prim shifts her delicate weight from one foot to another, the moment causing the basket in her hand to swing from side to side within her grasp. "Katniss wouldn't like it very much," she admits.

"So go away before she comes looking for you."

Cato sets down his sword and bends to pick up the hand grip on the ground. Transferring the object to his crippled arm, he begins to slowly flex the training tool. Every cycle he completes is its own small triumph.

"I can try and help you, if you want," Prim's soft voice cuts through the haze of pain he feels with each squeeze of the grip. Sighing in annoyance, he looks at her again.

"I don't need any help."

"You don't?" Prim's knowing eyes flicker to his maimed arm and back up to his face.

"No, I don't," he snips back. "How many times do I have to tell you to leave before you actually go? I'll force you if I have to."

"Those scars on your arm look painful. They're probably thick too, right? Must make it hard to bend your arm."

"What are you, a medic?"

Prim flushes from annoyance at the cold skepticism in his voice. "I'm a healer!"

"At twelve years old?"

"I am!" She insists. "My mother's teaching me to heal. She says I'm good at it."

"And you think you can fix what some of the best medics in Panem couldn't?" Cato snorts in disbelief, bored of the conversation.

"Couldn't or wouldn't?" Cato shoots her an angry glare, and Prim hastily corrects herself. "I mean, that's what Haymitch says anyway. I can't fix it, but maybe I can come up with something that will help soften the scar tissue you have to make it easier for you to use your arm."

Cato doesn't answer her, but the look on his face tells her that he believes that she is just wasting more of his time.

"I like experimenting with herbs, see?" She gestures to the basket she carries on one arm, and Cato glimpses the contents. It is filled with different leafy plants and roots.

"Where did you get those?"

"The forest," Prim glances away when she says it, and Cato knows enough about deception to recognize guilt.

"I thought District 12 citizens were forbidden to enter the forest."

"We are. But there are so many herbs that I can't find within District boundaries so I _have_ to go out into the forest to get them," she says.

"Sure, if you want to risk getting punished by the Peacekeepers."

"I know. They won't. Don't tell Katniss, please?" She asks hopefully.

"If I promise, will it make you go away?"

"Yes!"

Cato sighs. "Fine, I promise I won't say anything. Now beat it." At this point, the appeal of swinging his sword to scare her away is incredibly tempting. The only reason he resists is because he knows it will bring District 12 down upon him if he gives them a whisper of trouble, and he is a boy who has no where else to go.

Prim wisely leaves after that, promising to bring him a poultice of some kind to try on his arm. Cato tells her what she wants her hear in order to send her packing, but doesn't believe a word she says.

Why would he?

Primrose Everdeen would have no reason to help the boy who tried his best to keep her sister from returning to her family.

No reason at all.

* * *

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It is around sunset on his fourth day in District 12 when he encounters Katniss again. He is returning from another vigorous training session, his clothes plastered with sweat and his sword slung over his shoulder. Passing by her house, he doesn't realize that he is in her path until they are almost right in front of one another.

By then, it is too late to swerve the other way.

His mouth draws itself into a tidy line of displeasure across his face and Katniss's expression matches, nearly identical. Under an unspoken mutual agreement, the pair has avoided each other since that afternoon at Haymitch's house, but only to slip up a few days later, and either are happy for it.

They avoid each other because they do not wish to face each other.

Cato, stripped away from the arrogance he wraps around his shoulders like a cloak, is left at the most basic level of shame over what has happened. And to be so exposed, to have such a feeling put brazenly on display before anyone, let alone Katniss Everdeen, serves as the ultimate defacement of his pride.

As for Katniss, struggling with her caution and poorly concealed mask of normalcy, having brutal Cato around is a daily reminder of everything about the Games she wishes to push to the back of her mind. But she can't, not with him as a walking memory from a nightmare. To have the District 2 victor here, in her home District, after the last couple weeks of trying so desperately to the person she was before all of this began went against all of her efforts. Katniss may have problems adjusting, but to have a violent reminder of the Games living in the house just next door to her own has to be someone's idea of a cruel, cruel joke.

"Move it, 12," Cato says, breaking the tense silence first. He is always looking for a victory over her.

But Katniss doesn't move, making the split second decision to take advantage of the undesirable meeting to say what she's been meaning to say since Prim came home talking about meeting their new neighbor.

"Stay away from my sister, Cato."

"You should tell her to stay away from _me." _

"I already have," Katniss tells him, "But I'm reinforcing the point with you. I didn't volunteer to take her place in the Games to have her hanging around with a Career."

"Worried I'll kill your sister?"

Katniss takes a step towards him, her hands balled into angry fists. "Say something like that again, and I'll—"

"You'll what?" Cato smirks at her. "I have no interest in bothering with that annoying girl so get out of the way. It's been a long day and I'm sure that dingy District 12 shack of mine misses me."

She'll never take him at his word, but it is better than nothing. "Dingy? They're not dingy at all."

"Maybe not to you, slumsgirl."

"They're good houses, well built and secure. Much better than most people in District 12 have," she defensively states, "You should be grateful that Snow let you live in one of them instead of what is down by the Hob."

"Grateful? Ha!" Cato taunts. "As if I can be grateful for anything in about this screwed up reality."

"Are the victory houses in District 2 really that much better?" She asks, irritated over Cato's shameless dismissal of the best living arrangements her District has to offer.

"Of course."

"How so?"

"The houses are like mansions, too large for one person so it only makes sense to have your family move in with you, whether you like it or not. Well, unless they already are living in their own victor's house," Cato brags, his eyes glassed with a faraway look as he describes what came so close to being his. "Sometimes they give you servants if you've done really well in your Game. Most houses come with their very own training rooms so a victor can keep in top shape for whenever the District may need them again."

"Most people in District 12 would be happy to have a roof over their heads that doesn't leak, as well as food on their table."

"It doesn't sound like much of a victory prize to me."

"It is when you grow up not having much to begin with."

"I never had the problem. I didn't grow up in the slums."

"No," Katniss says, "No, thankfully for us, you didn't."

"District 12 seems like a horrible place to grow up."

"Some parts are bad, but not all. District 2 doesn't sound like paradise to me either, so don't think I would trade my home with yours."

"For a girl used to living in such a poor District, the Victor's Village must seem like an incredible prize," Cato sneers, "Instead of dirt beneath your feet, you finally have a hardwood floor."

Katniss opens her mouth to deliver a sharp retort, and then stops.

His words, meant as an insult, have the opposite effect. They kindle memories of her old home and way of life. Cato unknowingly brings into focus everything she's been trying to pretend doesn't bother her about her life now, and all the feelings she's been struggling to keep hidden in effort to maintain the normalcy people critique her on daily.

"I miss the dirt," she says, surprising him—and herself—by answering honestly. The words slip out and escape before she has a chance to clamp down and draw them back into herself.

Her truthfulness goes past Cato, unnoticed. "How could anyone miss dirt?"

"I do," she insists, the enthusiasm behind the words bursting from her chest and the jar she has sealed it all in. She wants to hold them back and keep pretense up, why take off the mask? But the difference between Cato and everyone else in District 2 is that Cato doesn't know her emotional victory is a lie. He's noticed her other lies she uses to win, but not the lie she uses to conceal herself. He doesn't care, doesn't look to see if she's adapting back to her life because he's too concerned with his own. If he had been anyone else—_except maybe Peeta, but he's out of her reach now—_she would have to hold back.

But to Cato, dirt isn't memories of home and times before the Games, of a past with an unbroken family and hard, honest work. Dirt is merely dirt, and the more he scoffs at her, the more she feels the pressure holding back the words lessen. She keeps the words at bay, unwilling to give her enemy an unwitting hold over here, but they fight her, wanting release.

"You're telling me you rather live in some run down shack than the hovel you currently call a home?"

"Yes," she says, and finds herself smiling, "I rather that."

"Well, like it or not, being a victor moves you up in the world, slumsgirl. I would have never thought it, but if winning a new house makes you unhappy, then that's something I can get behind," Cato mutters, unsure what to make of the peculiar smile on her face.

He suspiciously inspects the girl in front of him, trying to fit together her unexpected response within his personal conceived notions of victory. Deciding she's not mocking him, his own superior smirk spreads across his face. "In fact, that makes me really happy. It must be difficult for you to adjust to your new status, right?"

"It is," she tells him, her face still split by a monstrous smile. "It's awful. I can't understand why you wanted it so badly."

Cato doesn't know why she smiling so hard, can't make sense of the rather disturbing look of happiness across her face as she talks of how much she hates it. He doesn't connect that she's happy to finally be able to voice the sentiment out loud and breathe fleeting substance into feelings she'll have to cork up again. It is their mutual dislike and disregard of each other that creates the escape Katniss didn't realize she so desperately craved until now.

She smiles so hard that she knows that Cato must think she's mad, but she doesn't care what Cato thinks because Cato doesn't care what _she _thinks. That is the beauty of it all.

"How could you understand something like that when you act like having a floorboard is a punishment?" Cato shakes his head, giving up on making sense of the entire odd situation. He expects her to mock him, to rage over a situation he has no control over. But she doesn't and she's smiling, an expression of happiness he's never seen across her face. It leaves him uneasy.

"It doesn't matter. I just don't like it."

"Well, stop saying it, it's repetitive and annoying. Are you trying to make me feel sorry for you or something? Because I don't. I'm glad you're unhappy."

"I know you are. That's what makes this so great."

Despite her freakish smile, what she says that makes him realize that victory isn't so sweet for the girl he assumed won it all. He doesn't know why she wouldn't be satisfied, not with her new house and new fame. Cato thought she'd be basking in it, pleased to have finally secured a prize District 12 has not seen in close to twenty-five years.

Cato's happy that Katniss isn't, for it only goes to prove that he would be more deserving of the victory. But it also bothers him on a most intimate level—this ungrateful girl, not happy? Just what about her life has changed when placed in comparison against his own?

Cato eyes her, his expression clearly speaking volumes over the fact he thinks she's lost her mind. "Great? I'm the one who had to completely readjust my life. You just had to move into a new house. I don't want to hear about how miserable you are when I have my own shit to deal with."

The smile finally retracts upon her face, but her eyes seem lighter somehow. She still hits where it hurts. "You had to give up a lot, didn't you?"

Her direct question almost causes him to flinch, but he keeps his body composed. "Don't act like you're the only one."

Katniss can't come up with a suitable answer for him, but her brain connects the dots. For the price of keeping his heart beating in a game of death, Cato is punished. The Career is not an innocent, but the penalty for his life grossly outweighs his crime of life.

Is it fair? It didn't seem so to her, but she's never lived in District 2.

"Are you looking for me to say that I'm sorry they kicked you out?"

"No, because you're not sorry. What you're sorry about is how they kicked me far enough to fall here."

Katniss's lips twitch, but her expression betrays nothing else. "Having someone like you around isn't exactly a comfort."

"I was never meant to be a comfort to anyone, least of all to you."

She doesn't tell him she agrees with him in order to keep up appearances. Careers as a whole were bred for two specific purposes: to train, to win, and to train the next generation, or to train, to lose, and to die as an example of what not to do. Anything that gets in the way of that is unnecessary.

Cato reeks of danger and seeps violence from his bones. It is as clear to her as the yellow-green bruise on his jaw that reminds her of scrambled shades of vomit. She had seen it days ago when he first arrived in District 12, but the process of fading away hasn't been kind. It tends to be the worst parts that are left behind for the world to see, for they are the toughest to conceal beneath the surface.

"It looks to me like someone was able to comfort you with a fist to the face," she comments drily.

Cato involuntary raises his crippled hand to touch his face, stopping midway when he realizes what he is doing.

"I didn't think you cared, 12. How sweet of you to ask me."

"Cocky as always, Cato. I only ask because it seems like people keep getting the better of you lately. Maybe I should offer congratulations to whomever did this for getting in such a good hit."

"Your luck doesn't hold forever, since Brutus already left."

The mention of his mentor's name pulls her up short and she openly stares at him and his bruise for several short heartbeats before resuming her previous indifference. "I didn't know that District 2 mentors went around punching their tributes."

"How else do you think we'll learn pain if not through pain?" He says it like it's the most natural thing in the world. For him, it is.

"It doesn't bother you?" Katniss asks, and then realizes that the question is beyond him as Cato merely blinks at her, but it hangs in the air and she can't take it back .

"Pain is momentary, but the lesson lasting," he recites, as if reading from a District 2 primer. As if the mantra hasn't already been drilled into his skull from birth.

"We don't teach like that here. Haymitch never coached me like that." The thought turns her stomach.

"And yet you question why I'm surprised how you won," he says. "How could you win when you can't withstand pain?"

"There are all different kinds of pain," she says matter-of-factly, "Just because I was never hit doesn't mean I don't understand it."

The bruise on his face is a testament to the life he lives. Cato would think nothing of using his fists, as well as anything else he can get his hands on. Katniss will constantly have to be on alert with him around. Life would be simpler if he would go, and from how he talks, she's surprised he hasn't.

" If you hate it here so badly, why not just leave?"

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"Is that why you stay?"

Cato narrows his eyes from displeasure. "Don't flatter yourself, 12. Even someone like you has to realize that Snow's decision makes it impossible for me to go anywhere else right now."

"He's not here to hold you back. No one is stopping you, even Brutus is gone."

"And where would I go? It's obvious that Snow hates me. My own District doesn't want me," his voice dips slightly, "And no other District worth living in will take the risk, not right away."

"You sound like a disease."

"Shut your mouth."

Katniss smirks, nodding her head in the direction of his sword. "And yet, you continue to train for a District who wants nothing to do with you."

"It's not for them," he bites out, "it's for me."

Cato twists his hand around the hilt of the sword so painfully that it raises furious red skin across his palm, despite the calluses that protect them.

"I want them to beg me to come back."

His voice throbs with anger, and Katniss realizes in that moment it isn't her he's speaking with—it's them. Similar to how she used him, he uses her.

"And then?"

Cato looks beyond her, seeing only faces he can see. Katniss has become a sounding board, not a person. In rejection, District 2 have broken the ties of their force-fed devotion and unleashed something else entirely.

"And then I'll tell them no."

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She is helping her mother wash the dinner dishes later that night when the doorbell rings. Elbow deep in a sink full of bubbles and dirty plates that attest to how the Everdeen family no longer worries about food, Katniss jerks her head over to the door.

'_Who would be visiting at this time? Gale's still down in the mines and Haymitch is probably down at the bar.'_

"Prim!" Mrs. Everdeen calls to her younger daughter who is currently sweeping in the room next to them. "Can you get the door?"

The clatter of a broom hitting the floor assures the two in the kitchen that Prim has complied with the request.

"Are you expecting anyone, Mom?" Katniss asks.

Mrs. Everdeen smoothes back a piece of hair that escapes the bun resting on the crest of her neck, forgetting for the moment about the suds that cover her hands. The soap sticks to her hair, the tiny bubbles gathering like a colony of dust beneath a bed.

"No, not me. I don't mind though if it means we get a chance to enjoy having a doorbell," Mrs. Everdeen answers. "I swear I would never hear half the people who came to our door when they were left to only knock."

"Yeah, that's right," Katniss agrees half-heartedly, not wanting to take away from her mother's enthusiasm for something as trivial as having a doorbell. She secretly hates the damn thing.

"Hey, Katniss?" Prim says as she returns, her eyes dancing with a combination of mischief and questions that Katniss knows instantly she doesn't like. "It's for you."

"For me?"

"Yes! It's Peeta," Prim squeals with delight. She knows nothing about her sister's fake love and insincere kisses. It was decided, back on the train when heading home from the Capitol, not tell anyone at all about the facade. And anyone, as much as she hates to lie to them, includes family.

'_Peeta?' _Peeta has not gone out of his way to see her beyond any obligations Haymitch sets up before hand. _'What is he doing here?'_

Katniss numbly excuses herself from the kitchen, dries her sudsy hands on a towel and heads for the front door. Prim has left it slightly ajar and she sees Peeta waiting outside. She slips through the door, closing it solidly behind her.

The sky is just past dusk, more dark than light. The summer air hums with crickets and the slight stench of humidity, which makes it heavy to draw breath. Peeta stands quietly, blending in with the darkness, his hands shoved in his pockets and his eyes on the ground.

"I hope I'm not interrupting you or your family," Peeta says.

There is a bundle of nerves in her stomach, even though Peeta hasn't said anything worth sounding the alarm.

"No, not at all," she says cautiously, "We were cleaning up from dinner, nothing important."

"Oh, that's good."

The silence stretches between them, almost as heavy as the humidity in the air. Katniss tries not to squirm from the wreck their relationship has become.

"Peeta?" she ventures when it's been more than five minutes since either of them spoke, "Is something wrong?"

"It's kind of funny," Peeta smiles ruefully, meeting her gaze, "I came here to apologize for acting the way I have to you, but it's only when I'm right in front of you do I lose the words."

"Apologize? I'm the one who should be apologizing to you. You did nothing wrong! I was the one…" she pauses, stumbling over her tongue, "…I was the one who lied to you."

"Yeah, you were. And I'm still angry about it," Peeta shrugs, "But it turns out being angry with you is more painful than being in love with you. I miss you, Katniss."

Katniss has never been good with words, particularly expressions of sentiment. But this is Peeta, and the way he is putting himself out there again spurs her to attempt to give him something back in return.

"I've missed you too, Peeta. I miss being able to talk with you."

"And I'm sorry for that."

"You shouldn't be. I understand why."

"It hurt, you know? Finding out that you didn't feel the same way. I've cared about you all these years and for a moment, when I thought you felt the same…we were fighting for our lives, but I was so happy."

Peeta, always emotional, lays his heart out. Katniss can't come up with the words, guilt for hurting him piling deep and heavy upon her shoulders.

"Peeta, I—"

"It doesn't matter anymore," Peeta interrupts, cutting her off. "Unless…you feel differently now?" He looks at her hopefully, and it hurts her heart all over again.

She manages a small shake of her head, and Peeta darts his gaze away. She catches a glimpse of his hurt before he does.

"Well, I suppose it's better that way. I don't know what I would have done if you said otherwise."

"Peeta…?"

The boy before her sighs, long and deep, before squaring his shoulders and meeting her eyes again.

"Katniss, I'm leaving."

The world around her comes to a delicate pause. She stares at him, unable to follow what he has said. He doesn't flinch from her scrutiny and lays it out plainly.

"President Snow called me back to the Capitol, and I wanted to make my peace with you before I go."

* * *

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**Note:** _Convergence _**will have 42 chapters. I hope the length isn't a deterrant—I took some time to outline the rest of this story and that's the approximation I came up with.  
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**Thank you to everyone who took the time to review in addition to reading!  
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	13. Be

"I got a glimpse of the wound on his thigh, gaping, charred flesh, burned clear down to the bone, before I ran from the house. I went to the woods and hunted the entire day, haunted by the gruesome leg, memories of my father's death. What's funny was, Prim, who's scared of her own shadow, stayed and helped. My mother says healers are born, not made."

—_The Hunger Games, _pgs. 178 - 179

**Convergence**

Chapter 13

What do blood, soot, and flour all have in common?

Three unlike substances—(three unlike people?)

Blood. Soot. Flour.

Life. Labor. Livelihood.

They all have a tendency to coat the skin (sticking, clinging, embedding beneath the layers of flesh, adhering to the marrow of the bones).

What to do but try to cleanse such an unwanted thing away?

However—

Sometimes it's impossible to wash them off (_The blood? The soot? The flour? Or the people?)_, regardless of how diligently a person scrubs.

* * *

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The coal mine is a dank, dark, and depressing place to work. Men breathe in daily doses of soot with every shallow breath they dare to take. They inhale the diseases sealed at the bottom of the earth, bearing the filth that most of Panem are too good to sully their hands in. '_Filth is fit for filth' _the people at the Capitol would say. The higher class citizen of Panem aren't ignorant enough to dismiss the importance of coal, nor do they ignore the need of obtaining the resource. What the Capitol tends to disregard are the people whom they so generously bequeath the job to, whether District 12 likes it or not.

There comes a point when the soot soaks into the soul and grimes up whatever might have lived there before. The stains set and then resist removal.

Gale emerges from the hellish pit below, greeting the early evening sky with eager eyes. The need for clean air, sunshine dotting the ground in patches, and the knowledge of making it through another day is a necessity for most people, but even more so for Gale. For someone who only feels at home within the sanctity of trees, the daily commitment of walling himself up with heavy earth is self-masochistic.

The outdoor air is an addiction and Gale is an addict. His starved lungs scream for him to breathe deep and drink in as much as he can. He takes in all he can, knowing that no matter how much he inhales, it will never feel like enough. How can it? Not when he has to lower himself back down into the mines and the tainted underground air the next day.

With tired fingers, Gale pulls the hard hat from his head and drops it into his work box. His hair is plastered to his head and his fingers get caught in the knots as he tries to fluff some life into it again. He doesn't care about his image or his looks, but instead it's more a matter of self-pride that he exchanges for coal.

"Hey, Gale? Do you have a minute?"

The voice is unexpected and surprising, and it catches Gale off guard. But he is far too disciplined to let any surprise cross his face.

"What do you want, Mellark?"

Peeta steps away from the side entrance of the mine, hands jammed in his pockets. Even without his apron, streaks of flour still manage to find their way onto his clothing. Gale can sympathize—the soot never truly washes away from him either.

"Can we talk somewhere a bit more—" Peeta casts his gaze around at the other emerging miners, "—private?"

The coal dust itches across his skin and the presence of Peeta is nothing short of an irritation after a long day. "I have errands to run before I go home. Can this wait until another time?"

"No, unfortunately not. I'm out of time," Peeta says quietly, but Gale doesn't have the patience for his rival or his riddles.

"And so am I. My family doesn't have the luxury of fresh baked goods every day and they're waiting on me to bring home dinner. I have to go."

"Gale," he says, stubbornly ignoring the other boy's excuses, "it's about Katniss."

* * *

><p>::<p>

Peeta glances around the small shack that dilapidatedly stands a half mile away from the main area of the coal mines. There is a small table in the center of the room with several wobbly chairs halfheartedly tucked beneath the worn wood top. There isn't much else of note, at least not that Peeta can find amid the decaying structure.

"What's this building used for?"

"It's supposed to be place where miners can go to unwind after the day."

"Supposed to?"

"Yeah. No one really uses it."

"Why?"

"Why be in here when you can be out there?" Gale gestures outside, gritting his teeth as he does so. "Enough with this. I didn't come here to play a game of questions with you, Mellark. What's wrong with Katniss?"

Peeta fidgets with his hands, looking out the window and into the light of the setting sun. The orange light paints his face in an unnatural tone of color. "Right now, as far as I know, I'm guessing she's okay."

The words take a moment to register, sparking anger in Gale's eyes. "You used Katniss as a ploy to make me stay and listen to whatever it is you want to chat about? That's low, even for a rich townie like you."

"No, I didn't—"

"Whatever. I'm leaving."

"No, you're not. I'm the one that's leaving," Peeta tells him, but he doesn't move from where he stands. Gale looks on, his annoyance deepening with each passing second.

"Are you sure about that? Because it looks to me like you have no intention of that at all."

"Not leaving this place specifically_,_" Peeta says, "But leaving District 12 as a whole. I'm Capitol-bound on the next train out of here tomorrow morning."

Whatever response Gale is expecting from Peeta, it isn't this one. "And Katniss…?"

"She's staying here," Peeta affirms.

The frothing feeling of relief threatens to overwhelm Gale, almost eliciting a smile from his otherwise impassive face. To have Katniss stay here while Peeta—_an upstart in her life that has moved in to take Gale's place with the only girl he cared for—_left for the Capitol, well, it finally felt as if things could return back to normal. To how it used to be—before baker boys and bloody games and kisses Gale never wanted to see.

_A second chance, a second shot! _Gale wishes that Mellark was on the train already. He wonders how much the thought shows on his face, but it doesn't dawn on him that Peeta is intelligent enough to have already guessed it.

"So why call me in here to tell me that? Do you expect me to say some sort of a goodbye to you? Or that I care?"

"I know that you don't," Peeta says steadily, "But I couldn't leave without asking a favor of you."

This request takes the taller boy back. He appreciates everything Peeta has done to keep Katniss alive in the Games, but for Gale, the involvement between the two victors should end there. Eyeing the blond suspiciously, Gale ventures, "I don't know why you think I would do anything like that for you."

"Because it's not for me. It's for her. Well, I guess sort of for me, more like for my peace of mind."

Gale doesn't understand where Peeta is going with this, but his words rile his pride and goad the possessive streak he only shows towards the select few he cares about. "If you're going to ask me to stay away from Katniss then you have another thing coming, Mellark. I've watched the Games, I know how you feel about her, whether I want to or not. But she and I—"

The District 12 victor shakes his head as Gale speaks, disagreeing with what the other boy is saying. He cuts in, impatient, "No, it's not that. I would never ask you to do that. I know how close you two are." Peeta wears a look on his face that is distant and somewhat pained, though Gale is again left at a loss as to why.

Peeta debates with himself for a moment before coming to a decision. Meeting Gale's unabashed stare, he admits, "Though I am jealous of it."

The naked honesty makes Gale feel momentary superior over his rival, but the feeling quickly deflates when the memory of Katniss kissing the baker's boy flashes across his mind. "Yeah, well, I'm not exactly thrilled about you either."

Peeta's lips quip up slightly, but it's the only sign he shows over hearing the admission. "I'm going to get to the point," Peeta says, monotone and flat, "I've been called back to the Capitol, and I don't know why. Whether I want to go or not is out of my control, and it's impossible to know when I'll be back— if I get to come back at all."

There is a momentary pause of silence as Gale takes in the implications of what Peeta has said, weighting it in his mind before speaking. "I may not be a victor or played the Games," he says, "but it's public knowledge that the results of the Games this year pissed off a lot of people in the Capitol. But it's not like they can kill you outright."

"No, they can't get rid of me openly. Katniss created too much of a stir among the Districts for that, as I'm sure you've heard the rumors going around."

"I have," Gale answers guardedly, "People have always whispered about the problems with Capitol, but only now are they actually including talk about doing something about it."

"I wonder what it is about having three victors that suddenly woke them up?"

"Well, they got a love story out of it," Gale says, souring over the words, but continues, "Two victors from a District that never wins can be inspiring."

"Yes, but to cause the public unease that's going on now? I'm not so sure it's only because of that," Peeta muses, "In fact, I think it's more than just a love story that has caused such a change."

"What makes you say that?"

"Well, consider the fact that it's not just me and Katniss. There's also Cato. Having a District 2 victor alive, but who didn't really win on his own? A killer saved by the one he tried so hard to kill? It serves as a symbol that completely turns the system upside down—the two underdogs win, the tyrant falls, but keeps his life. And all three manage to get past the Capitol and be declared as victors. It's a statement."

"A statement?"

"Yes. It shows the Districts that they can do the same and outwit the Capitol."

"But wouldn't a love story between just the two of you show the same thing?"

"Not to the degree having three victors does, especially when two of them are such strong contenders, fan favorites, and yet, so different. That you can have two extremes, two completely different people, and have one show compassion for the other and change the outcome of a story seventy-four years into telling. People see the two of them, brought together on Caesar's stage, changing the scope of how the tale usually goes. Katniss typically should have been the one who dies, and Cato the one who wins, but it got reversed. And it's not only that to consider, but also the fact that they both survived, both made it out somehow past Snow—it's change and hope and everything Snow fears."

Peeta lowers his voice slightly when Gale doesn't answer. "Don't you see? It can be far more powerful than any love story."

"So where does that leave you, as part of the love story?"

"It takes me out of the vital equation."

Gale's expression doesn't change, but he suddenly understands the point of this entire conversation. "So that's why you think Snow is pulling you out of District 12? To get you away from Katniss and that bastard from District 2?"

"It's the only thing I can think of," Peeta takes a heavy breath of air, sucking it up into his lungs in effort to remain calm. "Take me out—the less important, the less inspiring part—and then get rid of the problem that remains."

"Katniss."

"And Cato," Peeta adds. "You can't forget about him, Gale. He's the problem in all of this, at least more so than I can ever be for Snow. And it doesn't help that he's a wild card in his own right."

"The bastard is lucky he keeps mostly to the Victor's Village. If he came into the main part of town, well, I know a lot of angry people who aren't happy to have a killer like that living so closely to them."

"My reasoning exactly. I don't trust him, nobody does. I don't know what Snow is planning to do, with me or with him or with Katniss, but it isn't difficult to guess that it's not going to be in our favor. He can't do anything directly since it'll only fuel the whispers of rebellion. But that doesn't mean he won't do anything _at all. _And Snow's not our only problem. Cato's unstable and comes with a temper. We not only have to watch out for Snow, but for him as well."

"For once, Mellark, you and I agree."

"Excellent," Peeta says, looking Gale steadily in the eyes, "I was hoping that was what you'd say, after all, it's the reason why I wanted to talk with you to begin with. It's a simple request really—just keep an eye on what goes on in the Victor's Village for me, will you?"

"All this, only to ask that? I do that anyway," Gale huffs.

"I know you do," Peeta amends smoothly, "But keep an even closer eye on things? I don't trust Cato, and now that he lives right next to Haymitch and the Everdeen family…"

"I will keep her safe," Gale says, and means every word.

The two men do not voice it out loud, but both promise themselves to do everything they can to protect the girl they care so much for. Peeta is protective and Gale is territorial, but in the end, even though there's no way for them to know it now, neither will be in the running for Katniss's affections.

It will be the killer they seek to protect her from.

* * *

><p>::<p>

"You're going to get caught if you keep making it so obvious that you're leaving."

The young girl freezes, her body caught in mid-motion of slipping past the wires of the outlying District fence. It takes a moment, but then she recognizes the voice and relaxes slightly. Sliding through the rest of the fence, Prim reenters District 12 ground safely. Meeting the emotionless stare of the boy standing a bit away from her, she retorts, "I haven't been caught yet, so I have to be doing something right!"

Cato gives her a look that makes her feel like a silly child, rubbing the side of his skull with his left hand. The action suggests to Prim that he is most likely battling another headache, but Prim doesn't care much about that at the moment.

Irked, Prim draws herself up to her full height and says, "Don't look at me like that, it's true! I've been going into the woods for herbs for weeks now and the Peacekeepers don't know the difference."

"That doesn't mean it'll always be like that. They could be holding out and waiting to spring it on you when you least expect it," Cato says wickedly, taking delight at the look of anxiety that bubbles on Prim's face.

"Stop trying to scare me. I need the herbs, so I'm not going to stop anytime soon!"

Cato shrugs, reaching into his pocket to retrieve his pill bottle. He pops the small green painkiller pill into his mouth and down his throat. "Not my problem, brat. Do whatever you want. But leaving behind footprints in the mud on both sides of the fence isn't going to help your case."

Prim flushes, for the first time acknowledging the glaring evidence before her. She mars the closest footprint with the tip of her shoe in effort to cover it up.

The older boy watches her attempt to hide her crime, his expression nonplussed. "Don't you know anything about stealth? Your uptight sister seems the type to worry about stuff like that."

The tips of her ears burn red. "She does. Katniss tried to teach me, but I wasn't very good at it. I'm better at other things."

"Like eventually getting caught by the Peacekeepers, eh?"

"No!"

Cato laughs, thoroughly enjoying making fun of Katniss's younger sister. It is another small victory against her, no matter how petty it may seem.

"I may not be that great at sneaking around," she admits, "But I know it's important that I get the herbs. So I go into the forest and do the best I can."

"Sounds suicidal, brat."

"No, not when it's something I need to do."

"No one is forcing you."

"I know. But we need them for healing. For helping people. I don't want to let anyone down if they come to me and my mom and we don't have what they need."

"You don't owe those people anything, why bother?"

"Because it's the right thing to do."

Cato isn't impressed. "That kind of thinking it going to come back and get you one day. If I'm there to see it, I'll be sure to laugh."

"You don't know that. Besides, if it does, I'll be like Katniss," Prim says earnestly, and even though she didn't intend for it to be funny, it causes Cato to chuckle. She scowls at him, clearly unhappy at his mockery.

"Like 12? What are you going to do? Shoot arrows at them? If you shoot like you sneak, you're shit out of luck."

"No. I meant that I'll be brave."

"Brave?" The look of glee fades from his face.

"Yes," Prim states firmly, "If there is one thing that this year's Games have taught me, it is how to be brave like my sister."

"She hid in trees and behind Loverboy. That's not brave, kid."

"It is," Prim insists. "Katniss is one of the bravest people I know. She did what she had to do to survive, but she also did what she felt was right. She is brave."

Cato opens his mouth to answer, but she doesn't let him. She cuts him off instead, not wanting to argue with the temperamental boy. "Oh, actually, while you're here—" Prim scoops up the basket near her feet and begins rustling through the contents. Her face splits into a satisfied smile and when she withdraws her hand from the basket, a small vial is clutched within her palm.

"Here, this is for you," Prim says, offering the vial to Cato, which he accepts after she forces it into his hand. Uncorking the top of it with his teeth, Cato's brow furrows after a short pause, and a look of disgust crosses his face.

"What the hell is this? It stinks."

"It's a poultice I worked on last night for your arm."

Cato looks incredulously at the girl before him. "For my arm?"

"Yeah, I wasn't sure about some of the ingredients, so it may not work. Try putting some on the scarred area and see if it changes anything. I can't help you with all of it, but I think I can ease the tightness of the scar tissue and help you move your arm better. And I got some help from my mother too."

"Your mother wants to help me?"

"Well, no," Prim admits, looking away, "She didn't know it was for you. She thought I was just asking to learn about a new area of healing."

Cato's expression is unreadable and his skeptical gaze doesn't leave Prim's fair face. His hand tightens on the vial, as if to crush it, but doesn't apply the extra pressure to do so.

"You expect me to believe that you went out of your way to make this for my arm, and on top of that, even lying to your mother to do so?"

"Well, yeah. It's the truth," Prim shifts from one foot the other, and Cato senses her unease around him.

Clutching the vial in his good hand, he steps closer to Prim, his body language dark and grim. "I think you're lying to me, little girl."

"I'm not," Prim says, and she sounds sincere. Cato doesn't believe it.

"Why would you want to help me?"

"I told you before I would," she responds back, puzzled and wary of this side of Cato. The teasing, mocking side she can handle, but when his other side emerges, Prim is reminded of how defenseless she really is against someone like the Career.

"Yes, but it's not like I believed you," he grits out.

"Why not?"

"Because in case you've forgotten, brat, I spent almost all of the Games trying to kill your sister. And, if given the chance, I won't hesitate to kill her now," he states methodically, watching Prim's face grow paler at every word that comes out of his mouth. "Do you think I'm stupid?"

There is a pause of silence that follows Cato's words, allowing Prim the time to gather herself and her fears, getting a grip on them.

"I didn't forget," she says, her knuckles white against the dark wood of the basket in her hands, "how could I forget that?"

"Exactly," Cato hisses, "So you expect me to believe this?" He holds up the vial. "What is this really? Poison?"

"It's not. It's what I said it was."

The tension in Cato's body escalates to higher levels, and Prim hurries to continue before she accidentally sets off the monster inside of him.

"I know what you did to my sister. And I know what you want to do to her. But I didn't lie to you. I really am trying to help you."

"You're a stupid girl."

"No, I'm not. I'm not helping you because I like you, or because you deserve it. I'm helping you so I can get back at President Snow."

* * *

><p>::<p>

Unbeknownst to Prim, Cato watches the shade of Clove circle around the girl, a calculating look on her face. The shade appeared while Cato and Prim debated over the vial of medicine, phasing into existence as if she had always been there.

Prim can't see her, but the way her body tenses suggests she feels the animosity that Clove is exuding in her direction. It is either that or the animosity from Cato himself as his anger grows. His skyrocketing negativity only seems to make Clove's shade become all the more clearer.

"For Snow? Ha! I'm right then. You are a stupid girl."

"You don't understand! It's the only way I can get back at President Snow. He didn't want you fixed, so if I try and fix you, even just in some small way, it can be my way of paying him back for hurting Katniss."

"You? Fix me? You're only a kid. Don't be ridiculous."

"I'm not being ridiculous! I know I can't help you completely, if much at all, but I know I can do more for you than those Capitol medics did!"

The way Prim stares at his crippled arm, analyzing the wound as if it was hers to analyze, is embarrassing enough. It goads him to consider how pathetic he must be if a little girl thinks she can do a better job than the Capitol medics did for him—or, rather, what they refused to do for him.

"Has it even dawned on you that if you help me, you'll only be helping to hurt your precious sister?" Cato says harshly, "Because helping me regain some use in my arm allows me the ability to go after your sister more than I can now."

In the background, Clove pauses from her circling and claps her hands in delight and approval.

But Prim doesn't even flinch. "You're wrong."

"Am I? You don't think I would go after her?"

"No, I do," she says, "I know you would. But Katniss would stop you. She won't let you hurt her."

Clove laughs, the sound high-pitched and grating to his ears. Cato's own laughter mingles with hers, though his is the only one Prim hears. The younger girl sets her mouth in a fine line of disapproval at Cato's clear disrespect.

"She wouldn't stand a chance. I'd find a way to get her when she lets her guard drop, just a little, and it'll be in a way so the Capitol can't link it back to me. Don't you get it? You help me and I'll snap her neck."

"Or gut her! Gut her!" Clove shrieks eagerly from where she stands.

Prim ignores his mockery and his threats. Shaking her head, she tells him, "Katniss would take you out before you had the chance to hurt her."

Cato smiles so hard that Prim can see almost all of his teeth. The look on his face turns her stomach over, but she doesn't let herself be cowed into submission.

"You're a stupid girl, just like I said. On the slim chance Katniss does survive, where does that leave me? Back to where I started—injured or dead. And for you? Well, you just wasted a whole lot of time."

Cato takes a step forward towards Prim, who remains where she stands. Clove moves closer to Prim as well, her eyes bright with the possibility of Cato hurting the District 12 girl.

"And like I said, you don't understand at all," Prim states firmly. "It's not about what happens to you after, it's about what happens to you right now. What you do after can always change."

The resolve in her voice stops Cato's advance and causes him to study the child who stares back as if she knows something he doesn't. His stare is relentless as he tries to figure out Prim's game, look for hidden meaning behind her words. All he is left with is her sincerity, however misplaced, and a motivation for giving help that is beyond him in terms of reasoning.

'_Maybe I don't understand,' _he considers, but doesn't give Prim the satisfaction of saying it out loud.

"I still think it's a stupid plan, brat," Cato tells her, but drops the level of animosity in his voice. "And I think one day you'll regret it."

"I don't think I will."

"Obviously not," Cato holds the vial up for Prim to see. The light of the setting sun reflects off the glass and bounces back into Prim's eyes, causing her to squint. "If you did, you wouldn't have given me this."

"Will you try it?"

Cato gives a shrug of indifference. "On the off chance it'll help, maybe."

"I have to work on it more," Prim reminds him defensively, "so don't expect too much."

"Lucky for me, I don't expect much from anyone."

Behind the small girl, Clove wraps one arm around Prim's fragile shoulders and snakes the other up towards the neck.

As Cato watches, she pretends to slit Prim's throat.

* * *

><p>::<p>

Over the next couple of days, Cato uses the foul smelling poultice Prim has created for him.

It doesn't change a thing.

* * *

><p>::<p>

"Have a seat and stop hovering by the doorway, will you?"

"Yes, sir."

Brutus makes his way over to the sturdy, straight-backed chairs that line the wall of the room, wrapping around a long conference table. At the head of the table sits President Snow, a pair of spectacles resting on the bridge of his nose as he pours over the documents he holds in his hand. Spread out across the table are other papers and reports, inked notes and charts scribbled in their margins like delicate cobwebs.

"You wanted to see me, sir?"

Snow doesn't look up from his paper. "You heard about the uprising in District 11, correct?"

"I have. I thought the Peacekeepers took care of it and killed the leaders?"

"They did," President Snow confirms, penning another note onto the report before reaching for another one. "District 11's rebel leaders have all met their end, and things are calm once again in the district."

"That's great news," Brutus smirks, "killing the traitors and ending all that nonsense. Excellent."

"I'm adding more Peacekeepers to patrol the Districts."

"More Peacekeepers? Is that necessary? This is an isolated incident—"

"Isolated for _now,_" President Snow talks over him, "There's still unease in many of the districts, too much for my liking. I want to avoid something like this happening again, understand?"

"If I may, sir?"

"Yes, what is it?"

"I do not disagree with what you're saying, but are you sure it won't backfire on you? Adding more Peacekeepers may fuel the people to react with further rebellion."

Snow finally looks up from his documents, regarding Brutus with a critical eye. "Do you think I haven't calculated the risk? But if people are allowed too much freedom, it will be even more disastrous. This will help sniff out the remaining troublemakers and get rid of them for good."

"That sounds like a gambled risk to me."

"Every single moment in this life is a gambled risk," Snow leans back against his chair, "Why, look at you. A victor of the Games, a celebrated hero in District 2, and now a subordinate of mine. All portions of a life that went from risk to risk. The most important thing to remember while playing the game is to make sure that the odds are in your favor, otherwise it is not worth the risk."

Snow watches Brutus for another long moment, scrutinizing the man in front of him and storing away whatever conclusions he draws. President Snow is an older man, lacking the force and strength of someone like Brutus, and yet, he holds power over him simply for how the odds have worked out, odds that have placed him in the seat of real power.

"I once told another of my subordinates about the notion of hope, Brutus. Do you know who that subordinate was?"

"Seneca Crane."

"That is correct. And do you know what happened to Seneca Crane when he questioned me and forgot that very important concept?"

Brutus shifts slightly in his seat. "I heard he was taken down to the laboratory. No one has heard from him since."

"That is because Seneca Crane is dead. It would be wise for you to keep that in mind the next time you question my decisions, for I doubt you would want to go the same way he did." Snow's words are soft and he smiles as he says them, but Brutus can sense the malicious promise folded delicately between each syllable that slithers out.

"Of course, sir. Adding more Peacekeepers is a brilliant idea."

"Glad to hear you agree with me, Brutus," President Snow says as he turns back to his papers, "After all, you don't want to give them too much hope— it would only cause me to go through all the trouble of beating it out of them."

"May I personally assist in that beating, sir?"

"So bloodthirsty, Brutus. That's the kind of attitude I like to hear from you. But no, the reason I called you here was to give you a friendly reminder about that mockery of a victor from your District."

Brutus's face remains impassive as he shrugs. "What of him?"

"With this latest uprising, I need the process to hurry up. You know what I'm talking about."

"I do."

"Good. Then we both understand each other. See my assistant on the way out, will you? She has something for you."

"Yes sir."

"Go on then. We're done here."

Brutus rises from his seat, pushes his chair in, and heads for the door. The _scritch scratch _of President Snow's pen against the parchment of the paper follows his every footstep. The noise sounds like nails digging into the flesh of a wall and shredding their way down, breaking as they go.

"Brutus?"

The muscular man pauses. "Yes?"

President Snow remains fixated on his papers, adding even more comments to the margins as his hand flies across the paper. He doesn't even bother to look up.

"Make sure that boy gives me a reason to kill him. You understand?"

Brutus smirks. "As you wish."

* * *

><p>::<p>

**This chapter took longer to get out than I originally wanted, but I had to finish up the hours for my internship and get the paperwork submitted for the end of the course before I could sit down and continue this.**

**I'm glad that the length of this story was received positivity (29 more chapters to go)!  
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**Finally, if it seems like a new chapter is taking longer than it should, feel free to check my profile page. I'll post up updates about how the next chapter is going and/or any reasons for delays. Thank you for all the reviews and I hope you all have enjoyed this one just as much! Next update will feature a Cato/Katniss scene to make up for the lack of one in this chapter :]  
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	14. Able

"Muttations. No question about it. I've never seen these mutts, but they're no natural-born animals. They resemble huge wolves, but what wolf lands and then balances easily on its hind legs? What wolf waves the rest of the pack forward with its front paw as though it had a wrist? These things I can see at a distance. Up close, I'm sure their more menacing attributes will be revealed."

—_The Hunger Games, _pg. 331

**Convergence**

Chapter 14

Side effects are unique to each person because each person deals with trauma in their own way. What influences one may not influence another, and if it does, it may show up in a completely different fashion.

Bravery, courage—

It can all amount to nothing when caught within the inner ticks of a messed up mind.

It can surpass even the most crippling of setbacks.

So much depends on the individual.

* * *

><p>::<p>

"I'm sorry to run off on you right in the middle of preparing lunch, dear."

Katniss answers her mother with a nondescript shrug of her shoulders, her mouth consumed with munching on an extra ripe piece of fruit. The juice bursts under the force of her teeth, staining them a queasy shade of purple, and then proceeds to roll down the remaining flesh of the fruit. The drops of juice gather, coagulate, and finally let gravity take them hurdling towards the ground.

Mrs. Everdeen looks from her daughter to the stains marring the cleanliness of her floor and frowns. "Katniss, watch the floor!"

The younger woman shrugs again in apology, but they both know she doesn't really mean it. Mrs. Everdeen sighs, reaching for a damp rag and stoops to scrub the pinpricks of offending juice away.

"You know that this may stain the floor, can you be more careful next time?"

"Yes, Mom," she answers. She only feels guilty for the crime when she sees her mother hunched over the floor. Her mother's shoulder blades have finally stopped protruding from the skin of her back, courteously of a richer, more stable diet. But even though the bones might have been sucked back into Mrs. Everdeen's body, the slight hunch of her back will always stand as a testament to the difficult life she's led.

"Here, let me do it," Katniss says, bending down to take the rag. Mrs. Everdeen straightens and shoos Katniss's hand away, despite her daughter's protests. She heads over to the sink to rinse and wring out the rag.

"Don't worry about it, it's all clean now. Just keep it in mind for next time, alright?"

Mrs. Everdeen has always valued a clean house, but this is the first time in a very long time that she actually has the opportunity to keep one. Her obsessive drive to maintain it has become almost overbearing for both her daughters, but neither will voice such an accusation at her. '_Best let Mom be happy' _stands as the general consensus between the two.

Even so, her mother's obsessive new habit it is still wearisome at times. Katniss bites her tongue to stop herself from reminding her mother to whom she owes the fancy new house to.

"Sure, not a problem."

The wooden clock on the wall chimes the hour, reminding her mother of the time and her previous intentions to leave. Untying her apron and placing it on the back of one of the chairs, she smooths down her dress to brush out any wrinkles.

"Now, Prim's upstairs. I'm sure if you ask her, she'll come down and help you prepare the rest of lunch. I'm sorry to constantly be running out on you like this, but I can't turn down anyone who comes to me needing my help."

"I understand, Mom. Help them as much as you can," Katniss says, "I can finish off the rest of lunch, you don't have to worry."

"I know. It's just that…" her mother's voice trails off into silence as she crosses her arms under her chest and inspects her daughter. "Oh, never mind. I'll be back in a couple of hours."

The District 12 victor watches as her mother sweeps out the door with her head held high. It doesn't escape Katniss's notice that she has difficulty sometimes associating the independent woman her mother has become with the detached woman she once was. _'It only took me participating in the Games to really bring her back…and what does that say about all of this?'_

Shaking her head, Katniss crosses the room to check on the bubbling pot of water to see if it has hit a boil. Reaching the stove, she notices the wooden wicker basket her mother keeps her herbs in. The older woman normally brings it with her when she goes out to help heal a patient.

'_Mom must of forgotten it. Damn, she can't do much without that.'_

Scooping up the basket, she's careful not to jar the delicate herbs. Katniss opens the front door and scans the horizon. Mrs. Everdeen is a bit down the road, but within shouting distance.

"Mom! You forgot your basket!"

Mrs. Everdeen turns around and shakes her head. She lifts the basket she holds for Katniss to see. "I already have mine. That one is Prim's!"

'_Prim's?' _Katniss thinks after waving goodbye to her mother and entering the house again. _'I thought she only shared a basket with Mom. To have her own basket… I guess she's more serious about this healing thing than I thought.' _

The dark haired girl peels away a bit of the cloth covering the top of the basket and takes a peek at the contents. Resting inside of the basket is a hard-scavenged collection of herbs, leaves, and roots. Their purpose in healing is beyond Katniss's knowledge, but knowing her mother and sister, there is some long and convoluted explanation as to why they are important.

What Katniss _does _know, however, is that many of these plants can only be gathered in one specific place, and that place is not within the boundaries of District 12. It is in the forest.

'_Has Prim been going into the woods for herbs?' _The notion causes mild panic to spring up. _'Does she want to get herself killed?'_

Upset, Katniss trudges up the stairs with the basket in hand. She opens Prim's door without so much as a knock.

"Would you like to explain where you got these?"

From the way Prim stares back, she knows she's been caught. She doesn't even attempt to do Katniss the disservice of lying but readily ponies up the truth.

"Don't be mad," she says simply.

"I didn't say I was mad."

"You didn't have to. I can tell from the way you're frowning."

"No, it's more like I'm surprised…and worried. Since when do you go into the woods? You know it's forbidden."

"Since when do you _not _go into the woods?" Prim shoots back, hitting below the belt as Katniss stiffens.

"This isn't about me."

"You used to go into the woods all the time," Prim continues stubbornly, despite the clear warning look Katniss shoots her to stop, "and now you don't anymore. Why don't you?"

"Who says that I don't?"

"Katniss," Prim states with the all-knowing superiority of a child, "You don't."

If it anyone else besides Prim pushed the issue, Katniss would have gone off on them. But she respects her sister, regardless of her prying, and keeps her temper in check. There isn't much she wouldn't do for her sister, and there isn't much she hasn't done already.

"Even if I don't, why do you? For these herbs?" Katniss shakes the basket for emphasis as she talks, rustling the plants inside. "These herbs aren't worth getting in trouble with the Peacekeepers."

"Yes, they are! I can only get certain kinds in the woods, so I have to go. Don't worry about me, I'm careful."

"It's more like I'm worried about what would happen to you if you get caught," Katniss reminds her, "There are too many eyes now. The Peacekeepers are always watching—especially with our family—no doubt relaying every little thing we do to President Snow."

"Nothing would have stopped you for going in the woods before!"

"Yes, but what I did was done out of necessity. We needed the food to eat and the money to survive."

"Well, some people might need the herbs to survive."

"There's no getting through to you, is there? When did you become so stubborn?"

"Maybe when you tried to tell me not to go into the woods," Prim snips back, "And besides, you don't know when these herbs can be useful. They can help save people!"

"I didn't go into the Games so you can save people and risk your neck doing so. I went into the Games so I could save you!"

Her young sister flinches, and Katniss almost regrets her words.

"I know you did," Prim whispers, "And I know I can't ever repay you back for that. But I want to be brave, like you are. If I can be. I want to help others, like you helped me."

"Prim," Katniss says, her throat dry, "You don't have to worry about being like me. Just be who you are."

"I know that. And I want to help people, that's the kind of person I want to be."

Katniss stares at her little sister, at the girl forced to grow up so quickly under the tough living conditions of the poorest and most looked down upon district of the Capitol. She looks at the child who isn't a child and yet not quite an adult, and wonders who she would have been, if fate had been kinder. (_What she doesn't consider is if that Primrose would be just as kind— nobody ever really considers something like that.)_

Her little sister clearly believes in what she says, and Katniss knows that telling her otherwise wouldn't change a thing. The two are different in so many respects, but mesh together in other ways, especially it comes to having a soft heart for specific people.

She knows that there is no stopping her, for regardless of forbidding her, Prim will never stop. She has passed the threshold for that, pushed by the Games alongside Katniss and so many others, propelled along into a person she _thinks _she is meant to become—but she won't ever know for sure. None of them will since it all goes back to the Games.

"Be careful then, okay?" Katniss tells her, as if the reminder will ward off her worries. "You're not going to do those people any good if you get yourself caught or lost in the woods."

"I promise I will be," Prim answers back seriously, "But, you know, if you're really that worried…you could always come with me, Katniss."

"Into the woods?"

"Into the woods."

"Someday," Katniss says, one hand reaching to tug tensely at her braid.

It is then that Prim acknowledges that despite all of her knowledge of herbs and poultices, there are some wounds that may be beyond her power to heal, even when it comes to her sister.

* * *

><p>::<p>

The Capitol citizens welcome Peeta with open arms and lecherous smiles. The gentle baker boy has slowly become a fan favorite, an object to be fantasized and craved. The crowd adores all three of them, no doubt. But where Katniss and Cato are hard and violent, Peeta appears as the dewy-eyed boy who did it all for love, as soft on the inside as the bread he kneads.

There is something about soft things that makes people want to try and break them, just to see if they could.

Peeta prays the reason Snow invited him back wasn't so he has to bear their company. He rather hole up in his room and avoid them all, keeping himself away from their seeking eyes and lusty breath.

Peeta is no fool. He hears the whispers, knows the rumors, tolerates the stark stares that seem to follow him everywhere the moment he sets foot off the train. Haymitch has warned him about those who catch the Capitol's eye, sending him off on the hope and a whim that his very public romance with Katniss will keep him safe. What Haymitch doesn't have to tell him is about what will happen if it doesn't.

It is one thing to whore himself out for Katniss (_for at least he loves her, does that make it less dirty?), _but another thing entirely to become one more victorious whore of Panem (_as if the crown that rests upon his head isn't hollow enough—). _

"Peeta, my dear boy, are you listening?"

President Snow's words are soft spoken, but hidden under the guise of the gentle reminder is the hard edge of a warning to pay attention. Peeta berates himself silently for allowing himself a momentary slip from the game he plays with the most powerful person in Panem.

"I'm sorry, President Snow," Peeta apologizes with as much sincerity as he can muster into his voice, "I must be a bit tired from the trip from District 12."

"Ah, yes. That certainly can take the energy out of anyone," Snow agrees easily, "District 12 isn't the closest District to the Capitol, after all."

'_Are his words a reminder that help is far away? Am I just being paranoid?' _Peeta mentally shakes his head. _'Focus!' _

"It would make things better if it were closer—certainly would make it easier for people to go back and forth, wouldn't it?" President Snow continues, a gleam highlighting the dark pupils of his eyes. "Probably would be more of a comfort to you."

Peeta chooses his words with caution. "Yes, I suppose it would be."

"I bet you are just ready to fall into bed right now, aren't you?" President Snow's voice slithers over words, and Peeta represses the urge to shudder.

"That depends, sir."

"Oh? On what?"

"If it is my bed, or someone else's."

President Snow laughs. "Oh, you do surprise me sometimes, Mr. Mellark. Best not make a habit out of it."

Peeta swallows, his hands flexing nervously within the safety of his pockets. "I apologize again, sir. I did not mean any impudence."

"Of course you didn't," President Snow waves his hand as if to wave away the words, "You wouldn't be here if you did." The older man shifts in his seat, his eyes boring into the young victor in front of him. "And you most definitely wouldn't be my favorite out of the lot."

"_I'm _your favorite?" Being President Snow's favorite seemed just as dangerous as the alternative. Peeta didn't want to be President Snow's anything.

"Of course, my dear boy. I don't see how that comes as much of a surprise in comparison to your competition."

"May I ask why?" _'What does this mean for Katniss? What is he trying to say?'_

"Well, look at the other two. That District Two boy was the favorite, but couldn't get the job done killing you and the other underdog, even with all the help he was given. Oh, come now, Mr. Mellark. Don't look so pale, you must of known that. Where was I? Oh yes, and then he couldn't even die properly. You must see how he doesn't rate high in terms of being a valuable victor."

Peeta struggles to find his voice, but his throat seemed to have closed up. He nods his head, encouraging President Snow to continue with his calculating evaluation of the people he placed within the Game to die.

"And Miss Everdeen, so much to say about her. Do I even need to remind you about her pin? Her actions with the District 11 girl? How about saving you from your wounds? And even worse—her plan with the berries? Seriously, Mr. Mellark, don't even try and protest that it was an idea you both came up with. Neither of us are fools, have some self-respect, or at least some respect for me. And then helping out that idiot boy from District 2—no, Katniss Everdeen is certainly not my idea of a victor."

"But then why me?" Peeta manages to say, unsure of why President Snow is divulging such information to him. Every move Snow makes is not without calculation, so what were his calculations in this?

"You're the only one who respected the rules of my Game," President Snow says, his attention fixated on Peeta's wan face, "You were ready to die for your little girlfriend and give me the one victor the Games needs. Granted, I wouldn't have _liked _the one you were trying to give me, but that's beside the point. You understood the sanctity of the Games, thus you become the favorite by default."

Peeta doesn't answer, but President Snow doesn't let that deter him from continuing on. "Oh, come now, my boy. You should be happy! Most people would much rather be in my favor than incur my displeasure."

"I thank you for the honor, sir," Peeta finally answers, treading carefully, "But what of my fellow victors? I understand what you're saying, but I wouldn't want any special treatment that they wouldn't get as well."

"Worried I'll kill them, boy?"

"Should I be?"

"You should."

Peeta freezes and President Snow leans closer to the baker's boy. The scent of roses floods into Peeta's nose, a smell so toxic it almost makes him choke from the potency. It is a putrid scent, over saturated beauty warped into a former shade of itself.

"Is that a threat, sir?"

"It will be, Mr. Mellark, unless you behave yourself and act like a good little victor for me."

Peeta's fingernails dig crescents into his palms, threatening to draw blood. "What would you have me do, sir?"

"Stop looking as if I'm going to torture you. Lighten up!"

"I'm sorry. It's difficult to relax with everything you've been telling me."

"Ah, you worry too much. You just have to perform the typical duties in the Capitol for now and look the part of the model victor. That's all I'm of asking of you—to represent the victor Panem should have had this Game," President Snow gives him a polished smirk, "Is that so much to ask?"

"But you've always allowed other victors to return home before the Victor's Tour. Why call me back so early?"

"That was then, this is now. Different Game, is it not? The people need a reminder of how the old Games have gone in the past, a reinforcement of sorts. Having you here before the tour will accomplish that purpose."

"And you'll leave the other two alone?"

President Snow shrugs his shoulders and the stench of roses grows stronger from the movement. "Well, I can't say that, but I _can _promise you that I most certainly will if you don't play along."

Peeta jerks his head back, anger lighting his face. "But that's not fair!" _I can do everything he asks of me and it may not even matter in the end—_

"Life isn't fair, Mr. Mellark," President Snow says, cold eyes watching him, "But weren't you the boy who was so recently willing to do everything he could to keep the girl he loves safe? Are you willing to gamble with her life? Because I can promise you that you won't like what happens to her if you don't do as I want."

A defeated look enters Peeta's eyes, and President Snow knows he got him.

* * *

><p>::<p>

It is said that many people cannot get through traumatizing events without some kind of repercussion in return. A certain brand of side effect to serve as a parting gift from an undesirable experience, whether it be welcomed or not. It is only fair for tributes to carry such a burden, considering Death has let the afflicted escape with their lives.

For Katniss Everdeen, some of her side effects from the Games are obvious to those around her. She doesn't venture into the woods anymore. She doesn't hunt because she doesn't go into the woods. Sudden bursts of flame and light make her jump. She always carries some food on her person, but when it came to meals, she eats as if portioning her plate into sections to save for later.

Some side effects lay hidden, less visual for the world to see. Katniss does her best to keep them buried, but since when does the mind listen to what the heart always wants?

Katniss isn't ashamed of her sudden transition to being a light sleeper, courteously of the Games, but that didn't mean she embraces it either. It is more of an annoyance than anything else, for she finds herself waking up to noises she'd formerly sleep through with ease.

Noises, for example, like the haunted sounds born from the wolf pack that hunt in the woods surrounding the District. It has become effortless for noises to rip her from her dreams and back into her ever-morbid present.

The sounds of wolves fill her dormant ears and bring her back to reality.

Opening her eyes to the still dark surrounding her room, Katniss listens to the howling that echoes from across the boundary of the District fence. The pack doesn't always hunt so close to the Victor's Village, but when they do, they almost always wake her up.

Katniss sighs, sitting up in her bed and rubbing sleep and grit from her eyes. There would be no more rest for her while the wolves danced, no matter how much she tried to force herself back to sleep. The noise is too relentless, too loud, too _wild, _to allow for her to block it out.

Wrapping the light-weight comforter around her body, Katniss pads over to her window. _'If they are going to keep me up tonight, maybe I can at least catch a glimpse of them.' _Katniss doesn't begrudge the wolves for waking her up, she knows it isn't their fault. They are simply being what they always have been. It is she who is different. Prim and Mrs. Everdeen sleep soundly through the night, unaffected by the cries of the wild animals. She thinks it might be a victor-type affliction, but she's never had a chance to confirm it with Haymitch.

Katniss sighs again, though the sigh almost evolves into a yawn. Resting her arms on the sill, the girl places her chin atop her crisscrossed arms. The night is dark and mysterious, and such a thought isn't at all comforting.

She doesn't spot wolves.

'_Cato? What is he doing up?' _

Katniss raises her head from her arms, squinting into the darkness for a better view. The District 2 victor slips quietly from the door of his house, stealing into the darkness like a wraith. The glint of moonlight reflects off the sword he clumsily carries in one hand.

'_Sneaking around in the middle of the night with his sword?'_

The entire situation reeks of suspicion. Backing away from her window, Katniss stalks quietly to her own door, grabbing her quiver of arrows and her bow along the way. _'Whatever he's doing with his sword at this hour can't be good, ´_ she warily considers. _'Is he finally going to try and kill one of us?' _It was the only outcome that seemed to make sense.

'_I'll stop him before he spills more blood.' _

Inching her way to Cato's house, the night at her back, Katniss scans left and right as she approaches. Her fingers twitch against her sides and she wipes them against her thighs. Any movement at all will immediately result in her drawing an arrow in defense.

'_Where did he go?' _She flicks her gaze past his house and to the field and the woods beyond it. _'Could he be already at the others' houses? There's no way he could have gotten past without me realizing it.' _

The brunette nearly jumps out of her bones when Cato's voice fills the darkness. "Just what do you want, 12?"

Startled, Katniss squints into the perpetual black, trying to discern the place where his voice came from. Her eyes, finally adjusting to the intimidating dark, find him sitting none other than on the steps of his porch.

'_What the hell? I thought he was sneaking around and instead he's just sitting here?' _Suddenly embarrassed, Katniss wishes to be back in her bed and away from dealing with the situation she created from through her own assumptions. _'As if he doesn't take enough pleasure in making me feel like an idiot…"_

"What are you doing out here?" she replies, answering a question with a question. "It's the middle of the night."

"You're out here to ask me what I'm doing out here?" Katniss can't see so clearly in the dark, but she knows without a doubt that Cato is smirking, "Isn't that a bit of a contradiction?"

A sudden burst of dull light blinds her eyes, and memories burn their way through her brain as she remembers the fire that once flew at her. She shudders involuntarily.

Cato examines her from under the dusty glow of light streaming from the lantern he holds. "Pretty jumpy tonight, aren't you?"

"Shut up."

Cato gives her a toothy grin, but his eyes stray from her face and to the woods behind her. "You know what? I don't care why you've come to pay me a visit. I'm not interested."

"I didn't come to pay you a _visit,_" Katniss scowls over the word, its meaning tasting of ash in her mouth, "I thought I saw something and came over to check it out, that's all. Nothing to do with you." _Lie, lie, lie. And then leave. _

"Glad you've cleared that up for me. Now turn around and go home before I gut you," Cato tells her, gesturing towards the sword that sits beside him. The dusky glow of light flickers off the metal and bounds back into the shadows that creep in behind them.

"Threatening to kill me again? I'm sorry, but haven't I heard that one before?" Katniss retorts, unable to avoid getting in a dig before she returns to her house with whatever part of her dignity remained. (_She would watch from the window to make sure he didn't move an inch from his porch, of course. He might be innocently sitting in front of his house, but she didn't trust him for a moment—). _

Cato opens his mouth to return with a jab of his own, but falters, tensing slightly as another howl cuts through the open night air. Muscles knot beneath his skin and his good hand twitches in the direction of his sword.

"Afraid of the wolves, Cato?"

Her question is met with silence as the boy doesn't answer. His attention is fixed elsewhere. If it weren't for the dim light, she could almost confirm the anxious set of his jaw and the trickle of sweat that beads down the side of his face.

'_Do they really make him that nervous?' _Katniss considers, watching the boy before her watch the surrounding woods. She has never known Cato to show any real type of fear before, but then again, her own phobias are something she didn't have months ago.

Fears and set-backs and consequences—can people truly decide when a Game shall end? It seems to be more of its own master.

Katniss leans against the porch railing, keeping one eye on the tense blond and another out into the woods. To her, the wolves' song holds the promise of an invitation. _'It's almost as if they're calling me back,' _she muses. She wishes she could return, simply walk into the woods with the sunshine above her and a quiver of arrows ready at her back. She never counted on the violent shackles of the Game to bind her into stagnancy.

For a while, neither Cato nor Katniss say anything at all. The howling of the wolves speaks for them, breathing life into phobias locked within both of their hearts. It is only when the wolves' song becomes quieter, less frequent, does its pull slacken.

"I'll kill them too."

Cato's harsh voice breaks the silence, his tone unyielding and bitter. Katniss, jarred from her thoughts, glances over at him. "Kill the wolves?"

"Yes," Cato answers without the least bit of hesitation, "I'll slit their throats if any of them comes near me."

Katniss rubs the center of her back with practiced hands. It has gone numb from being pressed against the porch railing for so long and she can't afford to be stiff. Not around someone as unpredictable as Cato.

"Why the wolves?" Katniss asks, "Have you always disliked them?"

The muscular boy next to her breathes heavily through his nose, and for a moment, she doubts he will answer.

He surprises her when he does.

"After the Games…I just don't like them."

He doesn't say anymore, but he doesn't need to. Katniss understands him as clearly as if he had gone on at length about his dislike of the animal.

'_The wolves remind him of the mutts in the Game.' _

Considering the way they tore him apart, she isn't shocked that he is ready to kill anything that comes near him with bloody fangs and breath stinking of flesh.

'_If I were him, I wouldn't be able to sleep with the knowledge that they were so close to me, whether I am protected in the house or not. It's just too close of a reminder.' _

No wonder he brought his sword. Katniss doesn't remind him that he can't use it to slay the ghosts that crowd his mind, no matter how sharp the steel.

Of course he can't sleep.

Not with the wolves at both their doors.

* * *

><p>::<p>

"Hey dipshit, how long do you plan on sitting out here for?"

Clove sits next to him on the porch, swinging her feet back and forth. She mutters dramatically when Cato doesn't answer. The swinging tempo of her feet becomes quicker and more violent.

"Fine, fine. Don't say anything. Don't want to look more like a lunatic with that priss Everdeen here, I get that. But seriously, why the fuck is she still here?"

Cato's eyes stray from the woods momentarily to shoot Clove a warning look. Sweat trickles down his brow and the way he works his jaw betrays the effort he's using to keep his mouth shut. Katniss stands against the railing, unaware of Clove's presence. Clove prefers it worked out that way, for things were easier without that complication.

"And what the hell gives with you telling her about your little boy fear of canines now? Seriously? Are you thick in the head? Or just plain stupid? What kind of District 2 citizen shows his fears?"

Cato's fingers inch toward the sword and Clove knows he'd love to stab her through with it if he could. The sentiment gives her a thrill of excitement and only encourages her further.

"Those mutts messed you up good, didn't they? Look at you—talking to me, scared of some mangy wild beasts—no wonder District 2 didn't want you anymore."

Movement next to Cato catches Clove's attention. She watches as Katniss finally slides down against the railing to the ground. She's not on the same step as Cato, rather placing herself one below, but she brings her knees up to her chest and wraps her arms around them without a word.

"Oh great, would you look at that?" Clove pokes her wispy finger against Cato's broad shoulder, causing his teeth to clench as he shoots murder in her direction. "That bitch is getting comfortable! Probably because she knows the same thing as me, that you're some pansy-assed wimp now."

Clove slithers closer, knowing her proximity will further fuel Cato's anger. "If you think about you'd realized that _she's _the reason you're like this. She's the reason you lost, the reason you fear the wolves!"

Cato sneaks a glance over Katniss.

"Yes, that's right! Would you have fallen to the mutts if it weren't for her? Would you? I don't think so! You would have won the games—as a strong, whole man! Not as this pathetic lump you've become."

Clove inches closer to the stoic boy next to her, feeding into his anger with pointed words and saucy grins.

"She's the reason you have such a shameful fear! Her fault!" Clove runs her hand over the blade of the sword. "And she's sitting here, lamb-like, as if she's offering up her life to you."

Cato glances over at Katniss again, who meets his gaze with one of her own.

"Why don't you kill her now and be done with it?" Clove purrs, her words wrapping around Cato's mind and influencing him with sultry temptations of murder.

The boy looks from Katniss to his sword and then back to Clove.

"Yes, that's right," Clove tells him, feeling the anger she's fed into ready to spring forth, "Kill her, Cato. Kill her!"

Maybe he would have, if Clove had only a little bit more time before Katniss spoke and broke her hold over him.

* * *

><p>::<p>

"I don't go into the woods anymore."

Cato looks over at her, snapping his attention from the vague space to his left, and stares at her. He blinks like a startled owl, head cocked slightly to the side.

"What?"

Katniss would want nothing more to look away, but she keeps her gaze trained on his. "I used to go off into the woods, beyond the fence, every day. I loved it."

The boy next to her continues to look confused. "Alright, I'll bite. Why?"

"At first it was for food. We didn't used to get a lot of it in 12, as you probably can see. Then it was for money," she says quietly, "But really, it became about getting away."

"I can understand that."

Katniss looks skeptically at him. "Can you?"

"Life in District 2 is much different than District 12, but that doesn't mean that it didn't come without difficulties," Cato tells her, his face scrunched up with an emotion Katniss can't pinpoint. "I had my own place to escape to."

"You did?"

"Mhm," he answers, but doesn't explain any further. Katniss doesn't push him, but she studies him curiously.

They don't exchange words for a length of time, listening to the crickets crooning from the high grass and the occasional wolf cry that causes Cato to tense. The dark haired girl almost begins to tense along with him, influenced by his flinches, even though the wolves didn't bother her the way they bother him. Her demons came with different sounds.

"When did you stop going into the woods?" Cato asks, inspecting his fingernails. He can feel her stare on him, and it only causes him to study his cuticles with further intensity.

"Since after the Games," she says, matching his prior words.

"Scared of the creatures that lurk among the trees?"

"Creatures? Try the people."

"People like me?" He asks. Cato wears the cocky grin that always perfectly manages to get under her skin no matter the circumstances.

"More like the memories."

"Hn. So you're a sham."

"A sham? What do you mean?"

"Well, you played the Game as a girl who behaved as if she were some kind of Queen of the Forest. You hunted, climbed trees, and tracked in a way that became incredibly obnoxious."

"Obnoxious? Thanks a lot. So?"

"Look at you now," Cato shrugs, "You're supposed to be the Girl on Fire, but you can't even take the heat after the Games."

Katniss shouldn't find it funny, but she does. Because Cato's right, and she _is _a sham, and he doesn't give two figs about potentially offending her by telling her so. A grin breaks across her face, and she knows it's a reaction that surprises Cato because he's looking at her as if she is a really complicated puzzle he can't begin to figure out.

"At least I'm not the one who guards the porch the moment a wolf howls."

The crickets fill the momentary silence, and then the air is filled with Cato's laughter. Katniss stares at him as he laughs, a full, deep, belly-laugh deep from within his chest. She's heard his mirth before—the unhinged laughter, the angry laughter, the snarky laughter—but she's never heard this one yet.

Cato's laughing with genuine humor and it's the first time he's sharing it with her.

* * *

><p>::<p>

When the air no longer rings with howls and the dawn is beginning to extend lazy arms into the fading night sky, Katniss stretches out her legs and stands from the steps. Cato's eyes follow her movement, but he remains sitting on his porch.

"Hold all-nighters often?"

"More times recently than I'd like to admit," she says ruefully.

"Me too."

"Well, goodnight I guess. Or should I be saying good morning?"

"Never thought I'd be spending a night with you," Cato says.

"Don't remind me and don't get used to it."

"I'm devastated, really," he deadpans.

She rolls her eyes skyward in response. "See you when I see you, I guess. Try not to kill anything, okay?"

"Don't know about that, 12. It's difficult to take you seriously with your hair down like that."

"Huh?" Katniss tilts her head at him, confused. She reaches a hand up towards her hair and acknowledges for the first time the dark waves that fall freely around her face. Her hair is always worn down when she sleeps, but rarely does anyone beyond her family see it so.

"I guess even you cut loose sometimes," Cato tells her, "I wouldn't believe it if I didn't see it myself."

Wearing her hair down in front of him suddenly feels like she's revealing a whole lot more than what she actually is, though Katniss can't explain why. The moment takes on an intimate overlay as she unexpectedly allows Cato a glimpse beyond her guards, and she's never felt more exposed before him.

"Goodnight, Cato," She tells him, and is grateful when he doesn't question the blush that stains her cheeks.

* * *

><p>::<p>

From his own window, Haymitch stands with his arms crossed against his chest. A light sleeper in his own right (when not drunkenly passed out), he still wakes up to the slightest sound that penetrates his realm of sleep.

Despite the hangovers as an unfortunate side effect (for what in life isn't without drawbacks?), Haymitch has found over the years that he manages to nab more sleep blacked out than he would naturally. The day he realized that was a somber one, and he drank more for it.

Had Katniss bothered to ask, Haymitch would have told her that the wretched howling of the pack beyond the fence rouses him up as well. Except this time he just didn't expect the sight he wakes up to.

Through the panes of glass, the older victor watches the dark haired girl and the fair haired boy sit together on the porch. He is surprised over how they are not only together, but they are occupying the same space without the normal animosity that tends to follow them around.

Flexing his fingers, Haymitch stands in disbelief, unable to look away.

He watches them talk.

He watches them share silence.

He watches them talk again.

And then he watches them laugh. Really laugh.

'_Unreal,' _he thinks, _'This must be unreal.' _

But it isn't and it's happening right before his eyes. Haymitch radiates rage, shooting scowls of dark promise in Cato's direction. _'I don't know what that boy is playing at, but I don't trust it. I don't trust him.'_

District 2 would do anything to win, and Haymitch wouldn't put it past Cato to trade in his anger for faux friendliness if it gave him a shot at Katniss. District 2 citizens are a grisly, vengeful bunch, and have yet to show signs of otherwise changing from that mold.

Katniss finally begins to head back to her house, turning her back on Cato as she walks away. Haymitch is tense the entire time, fingers glued to the sill of the window. He is poised and ready to fling up the window and shut a warning if Cato so much as looked at his sword. _'I won't give that boy a chance to put a sword through her back.' _

She makes it back to her house and Cato returns quietly into his as the dawn light grows brighter. Haymitch doesn't relax. Instead, he paces the floor of his room, pausing momentarily now and again to shoot venomous glances over at the District 2 boy's house.

Any potential seed of friendship between Cato and Katniss is a problem, and Haymitch has yet to encounter a problem he couldn't fix.

* * *

><p>::<p>

**Hello, all! Just want to say a special thank you for the reviews posted for the last chapter. You all were extremely generous with your words and I am grateful for the time you took to leave them! **


	15. To -

"How wrong it looks in my bloody, filthy hand with its dirt-caked nails and scars. My mouth waters at the smell, but I place it carefully on the floor, not trusting anything so clean and pretty."

—_The Hunger Games, _pg. 347

**Convergence**

Chapter 15

Just because someone has good intentions, that does not mean those intentions are actually good.

People think they know what is best for another, but do they really?

What if those good intentions set off a chain of events, further complicating the problem rather than helping?

People can sink beneath good intentions, taking the ones they intended to help with them.

_[But is it better to do nothing at all?]_

Be sure not to drown.

* * *

><p>::<p>

"Have you completely lost your mind?"

Katniss's eyes widen, taken back by the sudden verbal assault. She had simply dropped by to visit with her mentor and give him the soup her mother had prepared for lunch, but as soon as she walked through the door, Haymitch rounds upon her.

"What are you talking about?" she asks, completely confused. Katniss sets the still steaming soup down upon the table, and straightens up to meet Haymitch's pinched face.

"Going out in the dark with _him. _It's insane on your part. What were you thinking? Were you even thinking at all?" Haymitch snaps back, his irritation further fueled when she doesn't immediately understand what he's referring to.

Katniss doesn't reveal much when she finally comprehends what the older man is so clearly agitated over, but her mouth tightens ever so slightly. It's the giveaway that she understands.

"_Cato? _Is that what this is about?"

"Who else?" Haymitch barks. "Unless you spend time with other murders who would love to kill you?"

"And what about you? Spying?"

She has done nothing wrong and she _knows _she has done nothing wrong, but the thought of other people knowing she spent time in Cato's company makes her uneasy. She doesn't quite understand how it even came about, if she were being perfectly honest with herself. Civil conservations held with the boy who swore to kill her? From the way Haymitch is staring at her, it's as if she has betrayed the people she lost during the Games.

"Spying?" Haymitch sputters indignantly, "No! I'm trying to look out for you and you're making it damn difficult! Are you trying to die?"

"I'm not even going to answer that," Katniss says, crossing her arms. The shift of her stance suggests she is on the defensive.

"Well, it looks damn well like you do," he huffs, "Going out in the middle of the night—_when no one knows you're out there—_and spend time alone with him? What happened to the survival instincts that got you through the Games? Even an idiot knows not to create such an opening and leave themselves so exposed."

"You're misinterpreting it, Haymitch!"

"Then please," Haymitch gestures exaggeratedly with his hands, "explain it to me. Because I sure as hell don't get it."

Haymitch's tone is fierce and accusing, and it unsettles her. Before the Games, Haymitch, though quirky, would be more in control of himself. This new, post-Games Haymitch, has become tenser than ever before, and that change alone is confusing.

Refusing to be cowed, Katniss shoots back at him, saying, "First off, you have to calm down. I don't know what's gotten into you lately, but you haven't been yourself. You're just constantly yelling, drunk or not!"

They both stare at each other, unwilling to give in to the other. Finally, after several moments, Haymitch takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and rubs his temples. Exhaling after a moment, he meets Katniss's stare. "Fine, I'm calm. Happy?"

"Sure you are," She says, sarcasm biting at her words, "So calm."

"Don't get smart," he chastises, "Look, I'm sorry I snapped at you. But I just don't understand some of your choices anymore, and it's making everything even more difficult."

"What's 'everything?' What are _you _hiding from me?"

"I said I'll tell you when the time is right. Listen, I'll try to better keep my temper if you promise to stop asking me about it. I never let you down before, right? So please just forget about whatever you set your mind on with this."

Katniss scowls at him, clearly wanting to pry into the matter more. The pleading look in Haymitch's eyes stops her. Haymitch has never looked that desperate, and something about it makes her nervous. Biting her tongue against pursuing the matter further—_which proves to be damnably difficult—_ Katniss confesses to her mentor what he has been waiting to hear.

"The only reason I went out there last night was because I saw Cato lurking around outside with his sword," she admits, "And I thought it was suspicious. I mean, we don't know what he's planning. What if he was using the night to make his move because it would give him more cover? I wanted to check it out. Otherwise what if something _did _happen and I didn't do anything to stop him?"

Her mentor crosses his arms, maintaining his promised calm. "Sure, I can follow you on that. But having a nice chat on the porch steps for hours doesn't really come off that way, sweetheart."

His skepticism irks her. "Just what are you implying, Haymitch? That we're suddenly buddy-buddy? That I want to become friends with him? That's crazy."

"I'm more worried that he's going to try and become friends with _you._"

"Don't be ridiculous. He hates me."

"Sounded like hate when you two were laughing together like old chums."

Katniss grits her teeth. "It wasn't like that at all."

"Then what was it like?" Haymitch asks with a rapid-fire question.

"I told you. I just came out to make sure Cato was behaving himself, and I hung around a while to make sure of that," Katniss insists testily. "He said the wolves wake him up at him since they remind him of the mutts, but that's all. Seriously."

"I don't trust him."

"Neither do I! That's why I went out in the first place."

"He loves to kill, and that boy wants to kill _you," _Haymitch says slowly, as if he wasn't sure she fully understood the concept._ "_And if he can make you trust him, wouldn't that be easier to achieve that goal?"

"I really don't think Cato would go through all that hassle," She answers defensively, trying to convince him that she hadn't lost her mind, "He doesn't seem the type to plan things out, he's more straightforward attack."

"He's not a crafty as other Careers have been, I agree," he says, relenting.

"Definitely not."

"But Katniss, you keep forgetting he's from District 2," Haymitch stresses, his voice pleading with her to understand. "He's a _Career. _That sort of brainwashing never goes away._" _

"I know that. Do you think I like having a Career living right next to you? My family? I haven't forgotten the way a Career plays the Game."

"Then don't forget that he may be playing it now. He may not look the type, but that doesn't mean he's not in the Game. Careers and their masks…they never take them off. They only change which one they wear at a time."

The memory of Cato's frustration at himself back at the Capitol's training center, when his arm had just been pieced back together and he could barely hold a sword, flashes across Katniss's mind. _'Did he act like that on purpose? Try to get me to think he was weak and let my guard down? I didn't think so at the time, but how can I know for sure with him?' _

"Haymitch, you've warned me about all of this before. What's your point now? You aren't the type to repeat yourself."

Haymitch sighs and brings his hands to his face. His fingers extend to rub beneath his eyes, and Katniss gets a glimpse at just how tired her mentor looks. Haymitch has never exactly taken good care of himself—_and living as an alcoholic for years hardly helps—_but the wrinkles across his forehead and beneath his eyes seem to deepen as she watches.

"You make me incredibly nervous when you pull stunts like that last night and give him the opportunity he's undoubtedly waiting to take," Haymitch says, "Do you know how scared I was when you turned your back to him when you returned to the house? If he tried anything, I wouldn't have been able to help you."

"I'm sorry. I never meant to scare you like that," Katniss tells him, "I just wasn't—"

"You weren't thinking," Haymitch interrupts, "And that's what scared me the most. I know you're a smart girl and I know you haven't forgotten the threat Cato poses on all of us here if he were to snap. Things haven't been easy for you, I get that. Hell, I've been there. Never left. But we can't forget, now more than ever."

The way Haymitch's gaze bores into her own makes her feel guilty, as if she's done a dirty thing. Shamed and embarrassed and angry at herself for giving an impression she wasn't even aware she was making. _'Getting comfortable with Cato? Friendly with him? With that monster?'_

The word '_monster' _barely crosses her mind before she remembers his surprise when she returned the hand grip to him, the adamant way his voice carried as he spoke of the pride he felt from being from District 2, and the mutual understanding they'd parted under the night before they both left the Capitol.

'_How much of that was a lie? How much of that was true?'_

"If anything," Haymitch continues, "think of Peeta."

"Peeta?" Katniss asks, surprised. "What does Peeta have to do with this?"

"You broke that boy's heart," he mentor tells her bluntly and watches as she flinches. "But he still loves you. Do you think he would really want to get word while at the Capitol about you two spending time together?"

"Peeta would never—"

"As cliché as it sounds, sweetheart, never say never. You don't need the Capitol _or _Snow getting the wrong idea."

"The only one who is wrong here is _you, _Haymitch," she tells him, urging him to believe her. "I _don't _trust Cato and I _haven't _forgotten. You don't have to worry about anyone getting the wrong idea because that will never change."

"Then stay the hell away from him, Katniss, and stop acting like an idiot who's trying to get herself killed," Haymitch says bluntly. "I don't know what act Cato is playing up to you, but I can tell you one fact I'm certain of. The only thing that boy is after is your blood, and you'll be a dead girl if you think anything differently."

* * *

><p>::<p>

Dust pillows up into the air as Katniss walks, the way in which she stomps her feet hard onto the ground unsettling the earth beneath. The dust swirls, particles sticking to her well-worn boots as she walks back towards her house. Her footprints trail behind her, a testament of dirt displaying the direction she travels in.

Using her coat sleeve, Katniss half-haggardly swipes at her nose as the dust makes it run. _'Stupid Haymitch. Stupid Careers.'_

Haymitch, despite being incorrect with his assumptions, manages to place his startling words beneath her skin and allow them to flourish within the layers. _'How could he think I relaxed my guard around Cato? That we could possibly be anything than rivals? Not with him. Never.' _

"Cato's nothing more than a killer," she mumbles beneath her breath, "He's proven that enough in the Games, no matter what side he tries to show now. That's what you wanted to remind me of, Haymitch, wasn't it?"

Katniss has seen enough of the brutal boy's monstrous side to never need another reminder about the threat Cato poses. He's tried all too often to hunt her down himself and end her life, and she would be an idiot to assume the end of the Games would protect her now.

'_But the other side? The glimpse of…whatever it is that he shows? The parts of him that don't make sense? What of those?' _

Katniss furiously shakes her head against the thoughts that jump unbidden into her mind. '_That doesn't make things different—it doesn't erase out what happened in the Games. It doesn't block out the death he's caused…or the joy he took in doing so. In the end, it doesn't change a thing.'_

Haymitch was wrong. She has no interest in anything beyond hatred and caution around the Career, and that is tepid at best. It would be easier if Cato wasn't in her life at all, and she could go back to pretending that everything was as it used to be.

'_I didn't forget.'_

Any hunter knows to strike when prey has let its guard down, and Katniss makes sure to solidify hers.

* * *

><p>::<p>

When Katniss approaches her house, the last thing she expects to see is Cato and Prim standing together beneath the shade of the pine tree in the garden. The darkened light masks their facial expressions, and she's still too far away to be sure if the smirk Cato is wearing is from humor or anger.

The sight is so surprising that it causes her to stop dead in her tracks.

'_Why is Prim with Cato? Since when does he come near my family?'_

Prim reaches into her medical basket and pulls out a small glass jar, handing it to Cato, who accepts. The action spurs Katniss from her momentary stagnancy, and she begins to make her way over toward the duo.

'_Why are they together? If he hurts my sister-_'

Prim reaches up to touch Cato's arm, and Katniss can feel her heart thud within her chest as Cato transfers his sword to his uninjured hand.

'_The sword! My sister!'_

"Prim!" She shouts, her panic getting the better of her.

The two turn to look at her as she nears. From the guilty look on Prim's face, Katniss knows this isn't the first time her sister has spoken with Cato. Reaching the pair, Katniss wraps her hand around Prim's thin shoulder and yanks her sister back. She deftly places her body between the two, shielding her sister from the muscular blond.

"Would you mind telling me," Katniss hisses between her teeth, "what is going on here?"

Cato's expression is closed and shuttered, unimpressed with her display of temper. He shrugs his shoulders, staring her down.

"Problem, 12?"

"You think?"

"Katniss?" Prim says softly, "It's okay. Nothing happened."

"We'll talk about this later," Katniss responds, never breaking from her stare down with the boy in front of her.

"Something I do to piss you off?" Cato asks, his voice betraying nothing of the boy who sat with her only hours ago. It was difficult to imagine the two were one in the same.

"I don't ever remember okaying you being around my family. I actually told you to stay awayafter you first met my sister. I thought the arrangement was for you to stay in your own house and away from here."

"That didn't stop you from barging in on mine."

Katniss narrows her eyes. "Not like I came for a social visit, like you seem to be doing."

"Barging in? Katniss, what does he mean?" Prim questions, confused.

"It's nothing important. It doesn't matter. What matters is you spending time alone with _him." _

'_Did Cato move in on Prim because he thought I let my guard down? That I would trust him with my sister? That he could get to me through my family?' _She may not fully understand the situation, but she knows enough to not let the bloodthirsty Career near her sister. How could she chance it, with everything she knows about him?

And in some small way, she was mad at herself too. Katniss would never admit it, but the feeling was there. If she looked closely enough within her heart, she would find the existence of something she would rather not acknowledge. A shred of shame, burning deep within, for forgetting for just a moment, a single second of time, where she didn't see the monster but instead saw the boy.

Prim tugs at the back of her coat. "But Cato didn't do anything to me, I swear. Please don't be upset."

"Prim, I don't want you around him."

"But…"

"No. You can't trust him, so don't even try to say otherwise. We're going home."

"I make you nervous, don't I?" Cato interrupts the pair's exchange. "I like that. Interesting how you're taking it out on the kid though."

"You shut up. You don't have a say in any of this," Katniss snaps, "Leave me and my sister alone."

"She's the one who bothers me."

"Hey!" Prim cries, indignant. "I'm helping!"

"Helping? Brat, your mixtures haven't done anything but stink up the place," Cato tells her, lips quirked back with mirth as the younger girl flushes from embarrassment. Katniss, on the other hand, has had enough.

Taking a menacing step toward Cato, she says, "Stay away from my sister. I mean it, Cato. If I catch you near her or any of my family and friends again, I'll—"

"You'll what? You can't do anything, 12. Not a damn thing," Cato shoots back.

"You're a killer," Katniss spits furiously, her hands quivering to reach back and grab the bow she doesn't have on her. She says it as if a reminder to herself. "A killer who I don't want around my sister. So stay the hell away from her, or I will find a way to make you regret it."

Cato begins to laugh—and it's nowhere close to the laugh he showed her the night before. The sound is high and cold, and there isn't any emotion within it.

"Aren't you forgetting something?"

"I doubt it."

"If that's your logic, then you shouldn't be around the kid either."

"I don't know what you're playing at, but I'm done," Katniss steps away from Cato, maneuvering Prim closer towards the house while keeping her eyes on the Career. "Let's go home, Prim."

"You're a killer too, or has that already slipped your mind?" Cato calls to her retreating form. "You've got blood on your hands."

"Not the blood you do."

"Blood is blood," Cato snaps, "And a kill is a kill. Don't try to pretty it up to make yourself feel better."

"The blood I have on my hands," Katniss tells him, words jarring past her teeth, "Is blood I'll never be able to wash off. But the difference between me and you is that I'm not happy about lives I took, or the death I caused in the Games. You are."

"You're not so different. You say that to make yourself feel better, and maybe you do," Cato says, "But you're glad you killed those people. You killed them so you can live, and when they died, you were happy it wasn't you. You were _happy _they were dead."

"You're nothing but a monster."

"And you're in denial about everything you did in the Games. You think you're different than me, you try to make the lives you took acceptable. But you're just a killer. You're just like me. "

"I will _never _be like you," Katniss tells him fiercely, "No one would ever _want _to be like you."

"Since when do people ever get what they want?"

"Funny, most people in the world manage to avoid being murderers, so yes, I guess they do."

"Sounds like you didn't get what you wanted then, since you're a killer too," Cato retorts, "That must sting, eh?"

" Stay the hell away from my family," Katniss says, voice like a whip, "I'm done here."

Cato's eyes carve blue canyons in the back of her neck as she walks with Prim into the house, and she almost expects to hear the sound of a sword being drawn. It surprises her when she doesn't.

Or, rather, when he doesn't.

* * *

><p>::<p>

"You're going to let that uppity little bitch talk to you like that?" Clove protests. Her fingernails dig crescents into the palms of her transparent hands. The marks that open from the sharp edges ooze mist and slime, seeping down her wrists and onto the floor. The pseudo-pain she causes herself excites her, for her pupils grow big and round from delight.

Cato watches Katniss and Prim retreat back to the safety of their house, ignoring the shade who continues to plague him. His strong hand flexes open and closed, making the veins pop. _'Is that how it's going to be, 12? More threats? As if you could do anything if I wanted to kill that little girl.'_

"Oye, you! Are you even listening to me?" The shade calls, dancing in front of his face. The slime dripping from her palms splash onto the ground from her frenzied movement. Cato watches it fall into the dirt and evaporate.

"Go away, Clove. You're annoying me," he tells her. _'As if telling her that would do anything.'_

"Go away and leave you now?" Clove grins, her teeth silver-sharp, "Where would the fun be in that?"

Cato turns away from her, hands reaching into his pocket to pull out the poultice Prim had given him before Katniss appeared. He studies the small jar, removing the covering on top and peering inside. The smell that wafts out from the herbal mixture causes him to wrinkle his nose in disgust and quickly cover the jar back up.

"Why don't you get rid of that? It's not going to do you any good."

"You're not doing me any good," Cato remarks, "But I can't seem to get rid of you."

"Ah, don't be like that. I'm much more useful to you than any jar of goo little Miss Everdeen concocts together."

Cato frowns, irritation crossing his face and settling in his eyes. "So far you've both proven to be useless. But at least one of you doesn't talk."

His words cause Clove to laugh, and as she does, he almost wishes he could take them back. Where Cato's laugh was emotionless and chilled, Clove's is high-pitched and shrill. The sound drills into his ears—an inhuman sound that threatens to cause his blood vessels to burst—and driving the headache he has to further heights.

"Would you shut up?" Cato demands, caught between wanting to rub his temples and cover his ears against the unholy noise she makes.

The sound is cut off within mid-cackle. Clove leers at him, a devious grin on her face. "I'm making that stupid brain of yours hurt more, aren't I?"

"I'm not talking about my headaches with you."

"You don't have to, I already know you're having one right now," Clove taunts. She brings a finger across her palms and swipes up a bit of slime that still oozes from the cuts she made. Before Cato can comprehend what she's doing, Clove lurches forward and smears the goo across his forehead in a messy line.

"What the fuck, Clove!" Cato snarls. The slime she marked across his head sears into his skin, and he swears he can smell burnt flesh. Using his good hand, Cato swipes at the liquid, but nothing comes off in his hand.

"Oh Cato," Clove says delightedly, running her hands across his forehead. Her touch causes the burning to flare up again, trailing behind her fingertips. Cato yelps and ducks his head away, pressing his palm against his head in effort to make the pain stop.

"Cato," Clove repeats, smile wicked, "Cato. You and your headaches, Cato."

"Leave me alone, Clove."

"I can't and I won't," the shade snips back. "Besides, you shouldn't be angry with _me. _You should be angry at that bitch Everdeen and her soft little sister. Are you really going to let them treat you like that?"

Cato straightens back up, running his palm across his forehead. The pain remains, but his hand continues to come away clean. "I'm not doing anything now. There's no point."

"No point?" Clove asks, horrified. "No point? Are you fucking kidding me? Did you really just say that?"

The boy rubs his good hand across the back of his pant leg. The sword sheathed at his side bumps gently against his opposite leg, secured beneath his maimed arm. He's nowhere near where he used to be, but that doesn't stop him from working to improve every day.

"What do you want me to do to them?" Cato says, "This isn't the fucking Games anymore, otherwise I would have had this sword through both of their backs when I first got here."

"Like that should stop you!"

"You want to give that prick Snow another reason to fuck me over?" Cato snaps, "He'd have me executed in a heartbeat for murder if he catches me."

"Only if! Only if he catches you!" Clove cries, animated, "So don't get caught!"

The shade circles around him, her own excitement for the prospective murder brightening the air around her. The urge for murder she exudes is catching. For a Career, it is difficult not to become intoxicated with death while watching her prance about.

"They're home alone. That bitch would never expect you to come after them now—not when you've come off as so weak!" Clove tells him, her voice both rallying and sweet, "Why don't you kill them now, Cato? No one would know!"

Cato's pupils widen with Clove's honeyed words, his own blood beginning to roar within his veins as she escalates his anger and humiliation. Her words bubble within his arteries, snaking their way through his body and into his heart. Her call for murder and death is a powerful force, driving into his brain with clawed hands that hook.

"Come on, Cato. You've had plenty of opportunities, what are you waiting for?" Clove soothes, "What are with all of your excuses?"

The blond's hands twitch, fingers spasming as he pictures their deaths. He wonders how Katniss would look at him—defiant until the end or surprised that he finally performed the deed he's wanted since the first time he saw her face at the Capitol? Would the kid slice up as soft as she looks? Would she cry?

Katniss's death. Prim's death. Cato pictures it all, his imagination running wild through the possible scenarios. Clove's words twist his mind and drive him into an intoxicating frenzy for blood. It would be so easy to kill them, wouldn't it?

Death. Death. Death. His death. Clove's death. He could practically bathe in all the blood.

But Cato does something that surprises them both. He turns away from the Everdeen house, breaking his mind out of the haze Clove has the ability to put it in, and begins to walk towards his own.

"What are you doing?" Clove hisses, shock coloring her voice. "I thought…the Everdeen house is that way!"

"I know that," Cato tells her, struggling not to turn around and change his mind. "But now's not the right time."

"Not the right time?" The shade's words explode from her mouth, twisted and foul. "_Not the right time? _When will be the right time, Cato? Aren't you ever going to take your revenge?" She freezes for a moment, her mouth snarled from an idea that strikes her. "Or…or are you really just too weak now? Soft like that little girl?"

Cato plods forward, keeping his feet on track even when they long to march towards the Everdeen house. "I'm not weak."

"Then prove it! Kill that bitch and prove that you're worthy of Victor status!"

"That's the thing, Clove," Cato tells her, eyes trained on his own house. "I'm not ready." He gestures toward his scarred arm. The sunlight illuminates the scars, making the gnarled flesh uglier than how it usually is.

"Because of your arm?" Clove practically screeches, "Are you kidding me?"

"When I kill her," Cato responds back, "It'll be in the form of a Victor. Not as someone who has difficulty holding his sword."

"Who cares about that, Cato? That's so stupid! It doesn't matter how you kill her, just kill her!"

Cato looks away from her. "When you say something like that, Clove, you must have forgotten what it means to be a Victor from District 2."

Clove lets out a frustrated snarl, baring her silver-sharp teeth at him. Without any sound, she disappears from where she stands, evaporating like the slime that fell from her palms. Cato studies the empty spot, his face expressionless.

"Being a Victor from District 2 means being the best," he tells to the air, "Best with a weapon, best physical shape. I'm not the best right now. But I will be."

* * *

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The door to the Everdeen household slams with a mighty _thud, _the vibrations causing the frame to momentarily shake. Even though the house is new for the Everdeen family, the structure itself was built many years ago, back before it became clear that District 12 would not produce many winners. As a result, the house holds the aches and moans of an old house that has only begun to be used as new.

Katniss whirls around from door frame to face her sister. Her face is contorted with anger and confusion, and her nerves come out through the beads of sweat glistening beneath her bangs.

"Have you lost your mind?" She asks her younger sister, unknowingly echoing the words Haymitch has used against her only hours earlier. "What are you doing, hanging around with him?"

Primrose stares back, her spine stiff and straight. "He didn't hurt me."

"But he could have!" Katniss says, her voice almost coming out as a yell, "Did you forget that he's a Career? That he wants to kill me, and maybe you?"

Prim flinches back from the angry tone of her sister's voice. Katniss is furious enough to spit the flames Cinna has so adeptly associated with her, but she has never spoken to Prim like this. Not even when their mother was lost to them.

"I'm sorry," the younger girl says softly, "I was only trying to help."

"Help? Help him? Why, Prim? Why would you do something like that?" Katniss asks. She begins to pace the floor, her braid whipping behind her as she makes her turns. She is barely contained emotion, and only movement can let off some steam.

"I help people. That's what I do," Prim answers, her voice barely audible, "and it goes against President Snow, just like you did."

"Like I did?" Katniss pauses in place before beginning to pace again, "We've already talked about this. You don't have to be like me, especially not by doing something that would put your life in danger like this. Do you thing Mom or I would want that?"

Prim flinches again, her eyes studying the hardwood floor beneath her feet. "No, I know that."

"The herbs you've been gathering in the woods…" Katniss's gaze darts over to the basket Prim holds and then out beyond the window to the trees. "You've been risking yourself getting caught by Peacekeepers for _him? _It's bad enough you're doing it at all, but for Cato of all people?"

"A patient is a patient, that's what Mom taught me!" Prim responses back. "President Snow didn't help him, but I could! I can make things better for his arm—"

"Prim, do you even realize what you're saying? Are you trying to help Cato kill me? Or get yourself killed?"

"No, of course not!" Prim says, horrified at the thought, "I never would want that. But I could do something, I could help. I could get back at Snow for taking you away!"

"By doing what? Putting your own self at risk by spending time with him?" Katniss says, the volume of her voice continuing to escalate. After doing so much for her sister, the notion that Prim is directly putting herself in harm's way for a Career blows her mind.

"But I could help—"

"You can't, Prim! You can't help him!" Katniss yells, reaching her breaking point. "Cato isn't like your goat. He has no problems killing a little girl if the mood struck him! And you're only making it easier to do so."

The older girl lets out a long breath, trying to get her temper under control. Prim looks back at her, stricken and pale, but Katniss can't stop.

"You have to understand, Prim," Katniss says as gently as she can, "Cato's not like Lady. He's not a goat. He's not like the village people or the coal miners. He's a Career, and he's dangerous. He will kill you."

In the silence that follows, Katniss hears only the sniffle of Prim's breath and the sound of her own furiously beating heart. And then Prim looks up, and instead of looking abashed, there is only anger.

"What about you, Katniss?"

Her older sister looks at her, taken back. "What about me? I would never hurt you!"

"But you've changed."

"I don't know what you're talking about. I would still never hurt you."

"The older Katniss would never yell like that," Prim says, ignoring her sister's previous statement. "Not at me."

"Hey," Katniss says, clearly frustrated, "don't change the subject. We're talking about Cato, not me."

"Well, I think it's time someone talked about you," the younger girl says, staring deftly back, unswayed. "I'm so tired that everyone's been avoiding it."

As her sister speaks, a chill starts to run through Katniss's body, dousing the flames. From the way her sister stares at her, with a look so sad and determined, she can tell she doesn't like where this is going.

"You're not the same," Primrose continues, taking Katniss's silence as a cue to go on, "You've changed."

The accusing words hang softly between the two sisters, connecting and distancing them with their implications. Katniss licks her dried lips and swallows hard while Prim stares back with steady determination.

"The Games change people, Prim," she says, monotone as if she were speaking about someone else other than herself. "Is it such a surprised that it changed me?"

"No," the blond girl responds back softly, "but you try to hide that change. Why do you do that, Katniss?"

"I don't know what you're talking about—"

"You do!" Prim says stubbornly, "You think you're covering up, that we don't see. But we know you're lying. You've been lying since the day you came back!"

"Prim…"

"No!" Prim snaps back, surprising them both with the conviction in her voice. "You're always lying, and you think that we're too happy to have you back not to notice. But we do!"

"And just what have I been lying about?" The brunette answers testily, her hackles rising at the accusation.

"This house!" Prim gestures as she talks, pointing to different rooms within their homestead. "You _hate _this house. We know you would have rather stayed where we used to live, just like the Mellarks did! But you pretend that it's great and you're so happy we're living where we are because you think that's what Mom and I want to hear!"

"That's not true at all—" Katniss sputters, but the way her eyes widen betray her shock at being called out on something she thought she buried deep in her heart.

"Stop lying, Katniss!" Prim interrupts again. The words spew from her mouth, and much like her sister just moments prior, she can't see to stop them once she's opened the door. "Just stop! And it's not only this house you hate, but you haven't been in the woods either! You pretend that it's for a million different reasons than the one it actually is!"

"And would that be?" Katniss answers back defensively.

"It's because you're afraid," Prim says simply. "You're afraid, but you'll never say it because you want us to think you're normal and everything is as it was. But it's not."

Katniss's mouth opens and closes several times as she struggles for words. Backed into a tight spot, she fights back like a cornered animal. "And what happened to you, Prim? You say I've changed, that I've never would have yelled like that before. What about you? You're yelling too, and you wouldn't have before!"

Prim puffs herself up, telling her sister, "I've changed, just like you've changed. But you pretend you haven't."

"No, I don't!"

"Yes, you do!"

"Prim—"

But Prim has had enough in her own right. She explodes, her shouts echoing throughout the house Katniss has paid for in blood. "You're a liar! Liar, liar, liar, LIAR!"

Katniss's mouth drops once more in shock, her gaze fixated on her sister as if she cannot comprehend the person in front of her. Primrose, having bottled up her own feelings and worries about her older sister, cannot—_will not?—_stop.

"You hate this house, pretend you're not scared of the woods, act like the Games haven't changed you but they have. You think you're lying to us, but the only one you've been able to lie to is yourself!" Prim cries, her breath heavy from emotion.

Prim slowly backs away from Katniss, her eyes gleaming and wet. Shaking her head from side to side, the girl looks sorrowfully at her shell-shocked sister. The guilt is heavy on her back, almost cracking her stiff spine. The guilt urges her to take back the words, to not damage her sister further by forcing her to face something she clearly has no desire to. But she's too far in, the words too far gone.

Softly, she says, "You are my sister and I love you, but you're not the person who left home a couple of months ago. And the sooner you realize that, the better it will be for all of us."

Prim disappears up the stairs and leaves Katniss standing in the foyer, alone.

* * *

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**That's it for Chapter 15, or rather, "The One Where Everyone Was Angry."**

**Thank you all for your patience. As I've mentioned before, I work a full time 9-5 job. I work two nights a week until 9pm right after the FT gig. The other nights I'm not working I'm taking graduate classes for my masters until 9pm. I don't get home until after 10pm during the week. Much of my weekends is spent doing homework and getting errands done.  
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**I live in an area of New York that was hit pretty hard by Hurricane Sandy and it really messed things up for a while around here. Take all of my normal routine, combined with a hurricane and an upcoming busy season at my job, and that's why it took so long for this chapter.  
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**I can't promise the speed I was updating during the summer, but I _can _promise that I will not give up on this story. There will continue to be updates for it until it is eventually complete.  
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	16. Go

"I think of his ridiculous reaction to finding the supplies blown up. The others were upset, of course, but he was completely unhinged. I wonder now if Cato might not be entirely sane." —_The Hunger Games, _pg. 324

**Convergence**

Chapter 16

Decisions are tiny promises.

Whenever a decision is resolute, a certain level of commitment is automatically linked to it.

Commitments guide decisions and decisions shape commitments.

And just like some promises, there are some commitments that cannot be unbroken once a decision has been made.

* * *

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Primrose Everdeen is generally thought of as a sweet-natured girl. Stubborn, like her sister. Delicate, like her mother. Hard working, like her poor departed father. She has been called many things throughout her short life, but mean-spirited is not one of them. But Prim sees herself best of all, and calls herself out on it.

'_I pushed too hard,'_ she thinks, bringing the edge of a braid close to her mouth, '_I shouldn't have said those things to my sister.' _

The braid disappears under the gnash of small teeth as the girl begins to chew the tip. Her braids aren't so neat today since Katniss didn't offer to help her with her hair. After an awkward breakfast, her older sister had left without a word to Prim, stopping only to tell her mother she was walking to the center of the village and eventually meeting up with Gale.

Mrs. Everdeen may have her issues, but she is no fool. Straining her ears from her spot at the kitchen table, Prim catches her mother's hushed words in the hallway to her sister. The younger girl can't hear what Katniss says back, but from her mother's response, she can tell her sister refused to admit anything was wrong between the two of them.

Mrs. Everdeen spends the rest of the morning with a scowl on her face, shooting pointed looks at her youngest and casually dropping hints that she would be more than willing to talk if needed. Prim promptly hides the rest of the morning in her room, waiting for her mother to go out for the day. Every well-placed look her mother aims in her direction takes another shot at her conscience.

'_I got so angry with her,' _Prim considers, gnawing away at her braid, _'What if she hates me forever?' _She pauses for a moment, the tip of the braid falling out of her mouth. The fair hair is covered with a fine gloss of saliva, and Prim thinks that it looks disgusting. _'But I didn't say anything that wasn't true!'_

Scowling at the dampened braid, Prim allows the hair to fall from her fingers. She wipes her hands on the sides of her dress to get rid of any excess moisture. The feeling of wet hair on her tongue suddenly feels as unappealing as it looks.

'_I just want my sister back and __I can't stop now,' _she thinks, even as her conscience wails a different answer. She grabs her soft jacket with the deep hood and zips it up her body. The garment is the first new coat Prim has ever had in her life, and she doesn't need anyone to tell her that it's because of Katniss. _'I have to do this for my sister. President Snow hurt her. He's a bad man.' _

Scooping up her basket, Prim steps out of the house and locks the door behind her. Looking this way and that, she cautiously approaches the fence and the woods that lay beyond the District's reach. Spotting no one else around, she slips through a decaying fence hole that she will soon be too tall to fit through. This troubles her to some extent, but she brushes it off to deal with another time.

Prim is fixated on helping the boy who hurt her sister in hopes of achieving her own peace with Snow. It is easier to exonerate Cato's blame for his own actions and place it on the miserable old man at the Capitol. After all, President Snow is the one who started it all—made Cato the way he is, changed Katniss from whom she was. _'Katniss will understand. She will.' _

The fair haired girl can't leave the path she's chosen for herself by helping Cato. Abandoning it now will leave her as helpless as she was during the Reaping, unable to change _anything. _So she stomachs her guilt, shelves her conscience, and pushes back the memory of Katniss's face from the night before. Right, wrong, it didn't matter. This is what Prim has chosen to be her anchor and there is no going back from that.

The youngest Everdeen sneaks as craftily as she can into the waiting woods and never notices the Peacekeeper watching her go from the other side of the fence.

* * *

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"You're so brave," coos the woman who is far too thin in the waist and extra large in the breasts as she presses against Peeta's side. "I've always found bravery to be a desirable quality in a man."

_'I'm sure that's not the only thing you find desirable,' _Peeta thinks, disgusted, as he awkwardly tries to loosen his tie. He's dressed up in an extraordinarily expensive tux that is worth more than his family's bakery can make within a year. Even his shoes exude the impression of money, having been waxed so heavily he could practically see his face in the reflection. Clothed in such finery, he bears no resemblance to the village bread boy.

Capitol parties are a breeding ground for betting, booze, bribes and sex. And Peeta, as with most victors, is expected to attend every party he receives an invitation for_—_which, unfortunately for the baker's son, is becoming quite a large amount. The Capitol has a fixed obsession with one of the newest victors, and they did not plan on letting him out of their grasp anytime soon.

Finnick Odair is the perfect example of everything a victor should become after achieving victory. He has the essential pretty face, a confidence like no other, and a seemingly receptive willingness to do whatever President Snow told him to. It didn't take Peeta long to discover that Finnick's willingness extended to working his way through the beds of half of Panem.

The handsome victor introduced himself to Peeta within his first few days at the Capitol, presenting himself as nothing more than friendly guide and potential confidant. He liked Finnick well enough, and is grateful to him, but isn't stupid enough to trust him based solely off that. Participating in the Games has made it difficult to trust anyone, not to mention another fellow victor. There were too many snakes and not enough mice to go around.

Regardless, a friend is a friend, and Peeta didn't have many of those within Snow's city. He takes what he can get, discreetly suctioning as much information from Finnick as he can. The older boy may fool many people with his pretty face, but whether he held actual brains beyond his pretty face is difficult for Peeta to determine just yet.

One thing that no one would ever deny is Finnick's popularity around town. With a sex appeal voted sky high by Panem citizens, Finnick is a frequent guest at many Capitol parties for his eager fans. Continuously pawed at by women and caressed by men, victors at Capitol parties either embraced it with gusto or were forced to repress their revulsion, having no choice but to accept it. Peeta found himself no exception to this, barring one particular responsibility.

Finnick's hickeys, as well as the mewling noises that echoed through the walls from his satisfied companions, are all Peeta needs as confirmation about the sexual purpose of the Games' victors. His largely televised relationship with Katniss is about the only thing keeping him from Finnick's fate. Even though Katniss may not love him the way he loves her within their personal relationship, Peeta has no intention of letting his public one with her falter.

It would be disillusioned to think that he wouldn't have an eager, high-paying bedmate the very same night if the truth behind their love story were to ever come out. He had no doubts that he would end up just like Finnick_—_taking bedmate after bedmate, regardless of age, gender, attraction, feelings, _anything. _

Finnick had a _lot _of lovers, and whether the older boy actually liked it or not was never something he ever gave away.

"Are you listening to me, Peeta?" The woman on his arm whined, her unattractive, horse-like face showing her displeasure. She pouted up at him, revealing her fashionable green and purple tinged teeth.

"Of course," the boy fumbles, choking back the disgust in his heart.

"Good."

She runs her fingers down the broadside of his back, the nails grazing across the fabric. The tips are long and clipped to dull points_—_the latest fashion in the Capitol_—_but Peeta isn't fooled. He could spot the claws of a crocodile even when they're in the guise of a lady.

"The holo did you a discredit, don't you think Lucille?" the woman asks her nearby friend. She squeezes his bicep, a predator in heat. "He's _so _much bigger in person."

"Oh Aria, I'm sure that's not the only thing that's bigger," Lucille answers, wiggling her eyebrows in a not-so-subtle suggestion. She wraps herself around the waist of Finnick, rubbing her own body against him. The two Capitol ladies giggle to themselves, thinking themselves clever, and Aria allows herself an extra squeeze of Peeta's arm.

Peeta has never been so revolted in his life and wants nothing more than to leave as fast as his feet can travel. Forcing himself to focus on anything else, he stares at Finnick, who stands across from him. If Peeta didn't know any better, he would have easily grouped Finnick in with this group of sex-crazed pleasure seekers who have nothing better to do with their time than plan their next cosmetic procedures and barter for bed partners.

Finnick displays no outward discomfort towards their current lady friends, his voice purring and his eyes promising a good time to the lecher wrapped around his body in a vice-like grip. Everything about Finnick seems to welcome a quick lay.

"Ladies, ladies," Finnick says, squeezing Lucille closer against his body, "Am I to understand that you would prefer the company of my new friend over there instead of my own?"

This causes the two twittering ladies to go off in another peel of laughter, the sound grating and shrill. Peeta wants to plug his ears and free them from this torture, but Finnick's smile never wavers.

"So is that how it's going to be, ladies? Have I been replaced for good?"

"No, no, don't say such a thing. We could never give you up!" Aria prattles, still running her fingers up and down and everywhere across Peeta's back. "The Capitol loves you. You're too much fun."

The insinuation in her voice is clear and impossible to miss.

"We could never give you up, Finnick," Lucille says reassuringly, running a little pink tongue tip across the edge of her top lip. "Though, Aria..."

"Yes?"

"Don't you think...?" Lucille stares Peeta, the expression on her face openly hungry.

Aria understands immediately. "Oh, yes. Yes! I agree." She presses her breasts against Peeta's arm and looks up at him, wide-eyed. "Two is most certainly better than one."

Peeta abruptly has an uncontrollable urge to vomit, but Finnick readily goes along with it.

"The two of us?" he says, "I hate to disappoint you both, but my friend here is already taken. Isn't that right?" The Fourth District victor smiles at Peeta, but the look in his eyes threatens Peeta to pull himself together.

"I love Katniss," Peeta says simply, unable to come up with anything else but the truth. He knows his answer doesn't sit well with Finnick, judging from the flex of the other man's jaw.

"You two were so romantic in the Games," croons Aria as she continues to wrap her body around his like a poisonous vine. "And I admire that. But don't you ever think about the _what if...?_"

"I..."

But Peeta is never given a chance to answer. Lady Aria's roving hands have wandered their way underneath the cloth of his pants, and she gives his bottom a very thorough squeeze.

The contact of her skin on his skin acts as a final breaking point. Peeta's hand moves faster than any of the four of them can comprehend as he wrenches the offending hand off his bottom and out of his pants. Reacting on pure energy, he practically shoves the woman into her friend and Finnick.

Finnick's mouth slightly drops in shock. It is the only display of emotion that hasn't hinted of sexual promise all night from him, as well as the only one that can truly be labeled as genuine. The two female companions stare at Peeta in shock, as if _he _is the monster, and they are not.

"Don't touch me again," Peeta tells them harshly.

He whirls around, heading for the exit and for once not caring about the consequences of what he has just done. The wails of two affronted ladies rise up behind him, followed shortly by Finnick's soothing, lying voice.

* * *

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Peeta leans heavily against one of the outdoor pillars. Escaping past frazzled ladies and disappointed men, he hurtled outside and into the fresh night air. He longs to leave and head back to the relative safety of his room, but doing so would only make the situation worse. Even though he doesn't regret leaving the touchy party guests behind, he knows what he did does not come without a price.

Pressing the side of his head against the cool marble of the pillar, Peeta looks beyond the bright city lights and into the night sky. The artificial glow almost completely obliterates the natural light of the stars, with only a few peeking out here or there. It is completely different than the view back home, making it difficult to believe that all of Panem is all actually under the same sky.

"Hey, Peeta."

The boy turns, unsurprised by the voice that slides up beside him. "Hello, Finnick."

"Don't you think it's time to come back inside?"

"I don't think it'll ever be time for that."

"If you're worried that the ladies are angry with you, don't be," Finnick doesn't let up. "I've talked them down and they're fine now."

"I'm not going back inside."

"They'll be disappointed."

"I don't care."

Finnick leans in closer to Peeta, dropping his voice an octane lower. "You have to get back in there."

The younger man flinches from the irritation simmering within Finnick's words, but the feel of phantom hands all over his body locks him in place.

"I can't," Peeta tells him quietly. "I can't."

Whatever show of patience Finnick is holding onto is rapidly coming to a swift end. Though Finnick's face maintains his prize-winning smile and he continues to wave to guests passing by, Peeta is close enough to know that it is very much an act.

"What do you mean," Finnick hisses through a flirty smile to a passing guest, "that you can't?"

"It should be Katniss," Peeta spits out, "Not her. Not some random woman tonight or tomorrow night. You may like it, but I_—_"

Finnick's composure upon hearing those words cracks just a bit, raw fury spilling out in drips and drabs against such an accusation. "Me? _Like _it?"

Realizing that he might have stumbled upon something more than he bargained for, the blond tries to pacify the District 4 victor. "Sorry. There's so many rumors about you and from how you acted tonight, it seemed to match together. I assumed. I'm sorry."

Finnick, checking to make sure that the guests had drifted away from where they stood, doesn't seem to hear Peeta's words. Moving rapidly, he deftly places Peeta in a headlock before the other boy can react.

Lowering his head, Finnick's breath rushes hot and angry against Peeta's ear. "You better listen to me, because I'm not going to say this twice, newbie. I think you're an idiot for what you did back there. Are you trying to bring yourself even more trouble with Snow?"

Peeta attempts to speak, but Finnick tightens his grip, causing the trapped boy to let out a strangled gasp. "No, I'm talking. You just listen. We don't have much time. You are going to go back inside smiling like nothing happened. You're going to act like you're having a wonderful time with those wonderful ladies and whomever else happens to come your way. And you're going to do it again at the next party. And the next and the next and the next. And do you know why?"

Peeta shakes his head, but Finnick ignores him and continues to talk. "You're going to do all of that because you want to protect Katniss, don't you? Protect your family? Protect your District? If you cause another incident like that again, _you _might be okay. They might not. You _both _might not. I don't know. But I can guarantee you're giving Snow the excuse he's been waiting for."

The handsome boy releases his hold on the other, watching with a bitter expression as Peeta takes several deep breaths. "It's not like you have it so bad anyway. Not like the rest of us. You're holding the pass we've all dreamt of since we've won the Games."

"A pass?"

"Yes," Finnick says, emotionlessly. "A free pass not to have to sleep with every citizen who wants you in their bed."

"You hate it, don't you?" Peeta's scratchy voice asks his companion. "I wouldn't have thought..."

"Of course not. That's the point, isn't it?" Finnick points to a freshly formed hickey on his neck for emphasis. "But if you think for one moment that I actually enjoy it_—__want _it_—_" He cuts himself off, not allowing himself to speak any further. Peeta studies the man in front of him, an enigma of personality and survival, realizing who he needs to become if he wants to keep that pass.

"Snow's up to something," Finnick softly warns, "I've been trying to figure it out, but if you're with me and pull stunts like that, it'll only make it harder."

"Snow's always up to something," Peeta hedges.

Finnick gives him a frustrated look. "This is different. Something's up. I need to find out what it is before it's too late."

"What's so different?"

"I can't tell you that out here. Besides, why should I? Most victors wouldn't have even bothered warning you at all."

"I can help you."

"The only way you'll help me is if you become the model willing victor, ready to perform whatever Snow wants you to do. If you're associated with me and do what you did earlier, it casts suspicion on me too. So remember that next time you want to vomit, and you'll find that it'll help you swallow it instead. "

"I'll help you. If I'm stuck here I should be doing something useful. Just tell me what to do," Peeta insists, groping for a cause that will give him purpose while at the Capitol.

"What would help me right now is if you went inside with me to keep the company of those two wonderful ladies, if they'd still have us."

The other boy remains silent as Finnick heads for the door. He grasps the handle and looks back expectantly. "You coming?"

Peeta takes one last look at the muted night sky before turning away.

"Yeah."

* * *

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Across the other side of the country, the sun starts to sink beneath the horizon of pine trees. It spreads garbled light in one last valiant attempt against the sky, which has begun to darken to match the Capitol's sky miles away. The green of the pines grow dim as the light begins to shift, changing its own color alongside the solar cycle.

The shrinking amount of light draws Cato's attention away from the battered dummy he set up days ago. He has laid claim to a small, isolated area in the back of Victor's Village and away from the prying eyes of the town. The practice area is crude and could never compare to anything District 2 once offered him, but it's something and it's his.

Acknowledging the fading sun, Cato slowly slides his sword back into the scabbard. He fastens it around his back and tidies up his practice area. Touching the tattered dummy, he flashes it a self-satisfied grin. "I'm going to have to add more straw in you, buddy. You're starting to get flat."

He proceeds to go into his cool down exercises, forcing his tired body through the maneuvers that have been taught to him as a child. Working the muscles of his crippled arm is the most painful for him, both physically and mentally. There is only a certain point Cato can push himself before his arm refuses to go any further.

The slight improvement within his arm makes it all worth it.

His arm, nowhere like it was before the Games, would remain laughable to anyone in District 2. Paler than the other healthy arm, roped with scar tissue and uneven flesh, it leaves his weakness exposed and visible for the world to see. He's easily frustrated when he looks from one fit, strong arm to the other shriveled mess. It appears as if they belonged to two different people, but neither will let him forget that they're both his.

Concentrating on the dummy, Cato forces his wounded right arm out and up, stretch it towards his goal. The arm strains, the muscles contract, and it hurts like hell. But he raises it higher than he could a couple of weeks back, and is able to hold the position longer than before.

It's as if the tight band of paralysis that had restricted his movement has lessened, if only minutely. And whether it's due to Cato's workout regime or Prim's poultices, or a mix of the two, is hard to say.

The silly girl's concoctions—he didn't know what to make of them. Most of them were putrid in both looks and smell, though sometimes he received one that didn't seem nearly as bad as the others. Improvement? Not by much in the odor department.

Superstition drove Cato to try the smelly mixtures, but he didn't expect much from them or the kid. Sometimes he considered throwing it away just to spite her, even if by doing so could spite himself and his pride instead. In the end, regardless of temptation, it isn't something he can risk if the medicine held the remotest possibility of helping his wounds recover.

Most of the poultices did nothing at all. It didn't seem like they ever would, at least not until he tried the one she'd give him a few days ago. Whatever was in the mixture didn't help his arm with appearances, that was certain. But this poultice seemed to lessen the frequent pain that plagued him, loosening its hold upon him and granting him a small increase in mobility.

He hasn't told the girl yet. He doesn't really know how.

Fiddling with the jar, Cato works the lid off using a combination of his chest as a brace and his reliable arm. A _puff _of herb-smell releases into the air and escapes into the wind. The small jar is almost empty, causing Cato to scrap what little remains from the edges of glass and onto his fingers before gently administrating the ointment onto his scars.

The relief the poultice brings him is by no means instantaneous. It's a slow set-in of soothe balm that runs its way through the warped tissue and battered muscle, taking away the ache that never seems to leave. The muscles, tight from use, ease into a softer toughness.

It makes it all slightly more bearable.

Chucking the empty jar into his pocket, the glass lets out an audible sound as it hits against the bottle of headache medication. Cato has not been without either for days, taking the pills whenever a headache threatened to erupt across his skull and soaking his arm with Prim's poultice.

He wouldn't go as far to say both were helpful—since doing so would put him in debt to someone else—but the muscular blond has gone through too much to lie to himself and say it wasn't doing anything at all.

The sun continues, unhurried, along its usual descent. Cato walks back to the village, sucking air into his lungs, listening to the beat of a hopeful heart he tries to deny, and feeling the best he's felt since he embarked on his own descent down from the Cornucopia.

The screaming cry of a young girl jerks him from his thoughts, and very nearly splits the setting sun in two.

* * *

><p>::<p>

The commotion is by the fence at the back of the Victor's Village. The white garb of a Peacekeeper's uniform is unmistakable in the dying light, even from yards away. Cato's strides eat up dirt as he walks towards them, watching as the Peacekeeper locks a meaty fist around the young girl's arm like a vice. The official drags her across the field, heading towards the standing victor houses.

Even at a distance, Cato can tell it's Prim.

"Do you think you're above the law?" The Peacekeeper's haughty voice carries through the air. "Do you think you won't get caught just like the rest of them scabs?"

If Prim answers him, Cato can't hear her words. He is still too far away and he doesn't know what to do when he gets there.

The Peacekeeper hauls Prim up the short flight of porch steps even as the younger girl fights and claws to get away. He flings her uncaringly against the wooden door of the Everdeen house, positioning his body before the flight of steps and her escape.

"Do you think you're special because you're Katniss Everdeen's sister?" The Peacekeeper harasses her. He smiles a sick, self-satisfied smirk at Prim's pale face and trembling lips. Pulling the basket clasped tight beneath her bone-white knuckles, he dumps the contents out. Herbs, flowers, and other random assortment of vegetation floats to the ground. Raising up a polished boot, the Peacekeeper brings his heel down to crush the delicate pile.

"Can't be going into the woods, missy. Only brings trouble. See what can happen?" The Peacekeeper leers at her. Prim sniffles back. "Now, your little stunt has gotten my boots all dirty." The vindictive man smiles, revealing a missing bottom tooth. "Clean them for me."

Cato is almost at the house, close enough to see Prim stare at the boot for several moments. The once clean shoe is caked with mashed up vegetation guts and bits of flower petals. Raising her gaze to meet the Peacekeeper's eyes, she slowly shakes her head no.

"Won't do it, eh?" The Peacekeeper growls, "Think you're too special? You'll soon learn that _no one _from District 12 is special, bitch. Even that sister of yours. You're all just pieces of the same dirty, disgusting pile of trash."

The Peacekeeper promptly backhands Prim, striking her hard across the face. The cracking sound of it is louder than any scream.

Shocked, Prim raises a trembling hand to her face, which now bears an incredibly bright red mark of a gloved hand against her soft cheek. The Capitol's bird, the symbol of Panem, spreads its wings in elegant style across her skin. The uniform gloves of all Peacekeepers are required to bear the insignia of Snow, and now Prim does as well. Satisfied, the Peacekeeper brings his hand back as if to do it again, only he never gets a chance to.

From the moment the Peacekeeper's hand contacts with Prim's face, Cato is lost within his own sadistic tendencies.

If he were in his right mind, Cato would rationalize that his actions are motivated out of his need for more of Prim's poultice. He would convince himself that he held no other motivation besides the selfish one that sent him hurtling up those wooden stairs and to the top of the porch.

Whether he liked it or not, Primrose had aligned herself with him, doing what she can to help him. She is an ally, and Cato protected his allies as long as they were of use to him.

There is no other reason he will admit to, or rather, recognize.

Throwing his muscular weight against the Peacekeeper, Cato arrives in brutal style. Knocking the older man away from Prim, the victor slams his fist into the pudding-like face of the Peacekeeper. The impact bruises his knuckles and scraps away some of the skin. It feels good.

"Having fun with the kid?" he asks, "Like the way I'm having fun with you now?" Cato jabs the heel of his boot into the other's ribs, taking satisfaction in the painful gasp that follows.

"Victor Cato!" The Peacekeeper gasps, struggling to draw in breath, "I'm sorry. I didn't think this would concern you. She's only a bit of filth from District 12, and I-"

The older man never gets a chance to continue, for Cato thrusts another well-placed boot into his gut. His painful wheezing is a sweet treat that the brawny boy hasn't experienced in a long while, and like an addict, he wants to hear the sound again.

"Stand up," Cato orders. **"**Stand up if you don't want me to kill you right here." The Peacekeeper is no fool. He has seen enough victors, especially those from the Second District, to know that they killed as easily as they breathed. He barely manages to rise to his feet before Cato is on him once again.

Making use of his good arm, Cato punches the Peacekeeper in the face and back down he goes. But Cato doesn't stop. He draws back his arm and slams it into the face of the older man.

Again and again Cato hits him. The Peacekeeper's nose snaps with a loud_ crack! _halfway through the assault, coating his face in blood. Cato's fist paints itself in the sticky red liquid and seems to sing as it descends down for a second, third, and fourth time.

The air is alive with blood drops and pain and violence. It fuels Cato to let go and lose himself within the sadism he was bred for. Each punch feels as if he's coming home, and he offers a little piece of himself up and into the bloody air in the process.

Somewhere along the way, Clove materializes, taking her place beside him. He doesn't see her appear, but he knows well enough that she's there. For once Clove holds her tongue as she takes in the scene unfolding in front of her.

Her approving presence urges him on—to hit harder, to find a new spot he hasn't covered yet in a mosaic of bruises. Cato doesn't have to look at her to know that there's a delighted grin on her ghoulish, flickering face as she silently eggs him on.

More blood, more pain, more violence. Again and again he achieves such a high with each punch and hit he throws. The vindictive hardwiring of his brain overtakes him in a way he's never experienced before, and with Clove driving him, he can't stop.

Somewhere in the background, a soft static invading his own private world, Cato registers Prim is calling out to him, begging him to stop. She is crying now. He can scent the salt of her tears mixing with the salt of the Peacekeeper's blood.

"Please, Cato! Stop it. Stop it!" Her voice cracks as she calls out to him, her coat splattered from the fallout of gore. "You have to stop!"

But Prim doesn't dare move from the spot on the porch she has locked herself in, even as she begs him.

She doesn't need anyone to tell her that Cato is in the process of losing his mind.

* * *

><p>::<p>

Considering the blow-out with Prim the night prior, Katniss is having a relatively good day. Unable to look her sister in the face or confess the truth to their prying mother, she escaped to the relative safety of the village. Wandering around from shop to shop, she passes the time until Gale is released from the mines, done with his work day.

Wiping the stubborn soot from the planes of his face, Gale offers to walk Katniss home. She declines, of course, but Gale insists.

"Between working this job and feeding my family, I hardly get to see you," he tells her persistently, even as the skin around his eyes sags with fatigue. "It's a nice day out, the sun's starting to set. It'd be fun."

And it is. Walking side by side with her best friend, Katniss feels the tension of the previous days and weeks melt away. With Gale joking around next to her, it's almost as if nothing had changed—as if she hasn't.

"So what did you do all day, Catnip?"

"Nothing worth mentioning," she answers with a minor shrug. "I wanted to get out of the house for a bit."

"What's in the giant backpack?" Gale nods his head towards the bag currently strapped on her back. "Buy anything good?"

"This?" Katniss slips the bag off her shoulder as they walk, unzipping it to show Gale. "Only a bow."

Gale eyes it. "Kind of on the small side for you."

"It's portable," Katniss defends it. "I don't feel comfortable walking around without one, and it's not like I can parade around town with a quiver on my back. The Peacekeepers would take it away in an instant."

"Better not get caught with it on you."

"I won't."

"I hope not."

"I won't!"

"Fine, fine."

"Hey, can I ask you something?" She asks as they approach the Victor's Village.

"Sure. Anything."

"Do you think I'm different now?"

The dark haired boy doesn't answer for a few moments, considering her question. Katniss focuses on the houses on the horizons, set against the sinking sun. The orange light makes the houses appear as if they are on fire.

"It's okay to change, Katniss," he tells her slowly. "Change isn't always so bad, even when the reason behind that change isn't a good one."

She mulls over his response in silence, choosing not to answer. Gale knows her well enough not to push for more when she is clearly not willing to give.

The Victor's Village looms closer when they hear it. A loud, wailing, pitiful scream that contains no words. It is terror without language.

"Catnip, what was—?"

"It's coming from the Village," she tells him. It is the only thing she needs to know before she takes off at a run, leaving Gale behind.

"Hey, wait! You don't know what it is. Wait for me!" his deep voice bellows, but she is caught in too much momentum to stop. While Gale chases behind her, she doesn't slow down. Before her are the faces of her loved ones, spurring her on.

The scene Katniss stumbles upon is one of the worst homecomings of her life.

* * *

><p>::<p>

The shock of what she finds brings her pumping legs to a skidding halt, stopping just before the steps of her family's porch. Gale pulls up quickly beside her, his panting breath proof of the damage sooty mines can do to healthy lungs.

Katniss notices her sister first. Prim is curled up in a tight little ball, off to the side. Her eyes are closed, but her mouth continues to form wordless words. Katniss zones in on the bright red handprint that is stamped across Prim's fair cheek. The Panem bird raises its wings up around the skin in greeting, telling the older girl all she needs to know over who has hit her sister.

Her eyes linger on the handprint for what seems like a long while, but it is only seconds later that she turns her attention over to the bloody scene happening next to Prim.

Cato.

Cato, who is living up to his reputation for violence.

She watches as he rams one final punch into the man sprawled out on the floor, connecting it quickly together that this is the Peacekeeper who attacked her sister. Cato's fist has been torn open, a victim of its own abuse, and is covered with gore. There is a lot of blood splattered over the wooden porch planks and across the front door. Katniss wonders idly how her mother will react to see her prized front entrance in such a state.

The District 2 victor shakes out his fist while keeping his crippled arm tucked up against his body safely. There is a wild grin on his face as he reaches for the sword strapped to his back, drawing it out and pressing it against the Peacekeeper's throat.

Gale makes a startled sound next to her, and it snaps her from the momentary paralysis. Glancing swiftly over at her friend, she watches as the older boy draws a hidden knife from his boot.

Whatever Gale hopes to do with that knife, Katniss will never know for sure. But she can make an educated guess about what the outcome would be if Gale were to challenge Cato with it. She has little doubt Gale would be sliced open from neck to navel before he even had a chance to use the knife.

"Stay back," she orders him, ignoring the way he looks at her in disbelief. "Don't go up there. He'll kill you."

"We can't do nothing," he tells her. "He's going to kill a man on the steps of your house."

"I know," Katniss says grimly, reaching for her backpack and drawing out her portable bow. She adeptly notches it with an arrow and slowly begins to climb the steps. "You wait here. Get Prim out if Cato loses it completely, okay?"

"What? No! You can't go. What are you doing?" Gale's panicked voice calls from behind her, but it doesn't stop her from ascending up the stairs until she reaches the top. The porch is slick with blood and she tries not to slip.

She doesn't take any chances, keeping her bow aimed at the brutal boy who crouches on the floor below her. His sword is pressed ominously against the Peacekeeper's battered throat, only requiring the slightest amount of pressure to slice through the flesh and rip open the arteries beneath.

"Cato, look at me," Katniss calls out tentatively, hoping to draw his attention away from the throat he is fixating on. "You have to stop."

Cato doesn't acknowledge her voice, behaving as if he doesn't even hear her. Drawing closer, she notices that he is mumbling softly to himself. His lips are forming words in rapid succession, though most are inaudible and the rest are senseless.

Gale calls out to her again, but Katniss shakes her head, bringing her finger to her lips to quiet him. Cato continues to mutter, the pressure of his sword never wavering. She notices the tremors that seem to wrack his muscular frame, causing his body to shake. The muscles in his crippled right arm are spasming frantically, making it painful for her to stare at it for very long.

She looks at him for a long moment, trying to piece together the many fragments of the boy in front of her. The snippets of self he's shown her—the temper, the pride, the vengeful, and bloody—are hard to sew together with some of the other encounters they've had since after the Games ended.

The District 2 tribute of the Games would never let himself be seen in such a state, or linger so long to make a kill.

Katniss takes in Cato's blood-covered body, his mumbling nonsensical words, and the quivers that plague his frame, and feels as if the person she met the night of the wolves is very far away.

Keeping her bow aimed and ready, Katniss lowers herself to the ground. Closer to his level, she can hear some of the madman-like rant leaving his mouth.

"Clove. Clove. You happy Clove?" He says to himself. "Look Clove." He pauses for a moment, as if listening to someone answering back. He nods along to words that Katniss doesn't hear. "I'll kill him now. Leave me alone."

Her fingers tense around the bow, ready to react should Cato choose to carry out his ghastly intentions. But he remains locked in the same position, neither increasing or decreasing the pressure of his blade against the unconscious man. Katniss knows that such an impasse will not go on forever.

"Cato," she calls out to him again. "Can you hear me? Clove isn't here. It's just me and you."

He ignores her. "Bastard mutts. Cocksuckers. My arm. Damn them...damn them..."

From the state he's in, she knows she only has two options-put in an arrow into Cato's skull, or somehow get through to him. '_The arrow seems like a safer bet,´_ she thinks, reluctant to kill again, and meets Prim's eyes from the other side of the porch. As if sensing her thoughts, Prim raises her hand to her battered cheek and slowly shakes her head.

"He helped me,"Prim says to her older sister, answering the silent question Katniss poses to her. The tone of her voice high-pitched and strained. "Help him."

That is all she needs to know.

Katniss looks at his arm again. The spasms have gotten worse, with every muscle seemingly rising up to rebel. The lumpy mass of scar tissue quakes from the movement beneath the skin.

"Cato," she calls out one final time, making a split decision on the spot. "Look at me."

As she speaks, she slowly lowers her bow. She can hear Gale screaming at her, yelling for her not to be stupid, but that becomes a background noise of its own. Katniss reaches her hand out, trembling and slow, and places it gently on his spasming, crippled arm.

The weight of her hand against his own rough, knotted flesh finally draws his attention onto her. Turning his head from the fallen Peacekeeper, Cato matches his wild gaze against her own steady one.

He looks at her, and doesn't look at her. Katniss studies his vacant expression, as if the person inside the body had stepped out and left behind a husk. His blue eyes stare into her own, but his gaze goes through her body and then out past it. They are cloudy and empty, pupils huge and dilated. Whatever he is seeing is beyond what her own eyes have the capacity to recognize.

Cato's passion for violence might have remained, but his mind is gone.

His vacant stare scares her, but she leaves her hand resting on top of his arm. The skin on skin contact is the only thing to draw a reaction from him and she takes it as a sign that his brain is not completely spent.

Gale continues to scream. Katniss tunes it out and focuses on the bloody boy.

"You don't have to do this anymore, you know," she tells him softly. His head tilts slightly to the side, but it is the only reaction he gives. She presses on.

"You don't have to kill this man, or anyone else. Do you understand that?" She tightens her grip on his arm, but not to cause pain. His skin is feverish to the touch. "We're not in the arena anymore. The Games are over."

Cato shakes his head slightly, his expressionless eyes burning holes into her own. "I know that killing is all you know, but it doesn't have to be that way." She glances over towards her sister, and his gaze follows hers. "I don't know what happened, but I know you were trying to help my sister. Isn't that right, Prim?"

Prim frantically nods her head and hiccups. Cato returns his stare to Katniss's face, brows furrowed as if he is trying to figure something out.

"Listen to me," she says to him, "If you kill this man, Snow will come after you. Don't give him the excuse he needs. Do you understand that?"

Cato doesn't react at all for several long moments. The silence is heavy between them, and Katniss doesn't dare to remove her hand from his. And then, whether due to her words or the feel of her hand, it happens. Slowly at first, and then rapidly, some of the fog within his eyes begins to clear. Blue eyes take on the shine of self-awareness, despite the vacant glaze that lurks along the edges. From her proximity to him, Katniss can pinpoint the precise moment that Cato returns to some semblance of himself.

Cato looks at the man on the ground, the sword in his hand, over to Prim, and finally back to Katniss, who holds his gaze. His pupils continue to fluctuate, shining and dimming between awareness and vacancy.

He makes his choice.

* * *

><p>::<p>

**Here's a neat little** _Convergence _**trivia fact for inquiring minds! The scene between Cato/Katniss at the end is one of the sequences that led to the creation of this story. This scene, as well as the wolf scene a few chapters back (and two additional scenes not yet written) are what I actually grew this entire story around. It's pretty neat to finally have another one of them written out and become an official part of this fic.**

**As always, thank you all very much for taking the time to read, review, and hopefully enjoy.  
><strong>


	17. From

"I turn to my mother and grip her arm, hard. "Listen to me . Are you listening to me?" She nods, alarmed by my intensity. She must know what's coming. "You can't leave again," I say.

My mother's eyes find the floor. "I know. I won't. I couldn't help what-"

"Well, you have to help it this time. You can't clock out and leave Prim on her own. There's no me now to keep you both alive. It doesn't matter what happens. Whatever you see on the screen. You have to promise me you'll fight through it!" My voice has risen to a shout. In it is all the anger, all the fear I felt at her abandonment." _—__The Hunger Games, pg. 35_

**Convergence**

Chapter Seventeen

Sometimes you don't need to have all the pieces.

* * *

><p>::<p>

The edge of the sword is sharp against the Peacekeeper's battered neck. Cato increases the pressure marginally, causing several tiny bubbles of blood to ooze out. They pop red and fall against the metal. He can feel Katniss's grip tense as she spots the blood, but she leaves her hand where it is. The feel of another's skin touching his own_—_despite that person being Everdeen_—_helps to ground him against the chaos running rampant throughout his mind.

Gridding his teeth, Cato attempts to haul himself up from the bloodlust that gnaws within every fiber of his being. His mind wants nothing more than for him to give in to the satisfaction that comes from taking a life, the power of it. There is no reason within his mind. He has spent his entire life perfecting how to be a killer and his brain has turned this knowledge against him.

Reality flickers in and out. Cato wants to kill this man. He wants it more than he has ever remembered craving a death. And it's not so much the man himself that drives the bloodlust, but rather the frenzied fog that is rolling through his brain and obliterating any sort of reasoning. The fog tells him to maim, to cut, to bleed, to kill. To murder this man, the Peacekeeper, and finally just give into what Clove has wanted him to do since the moment she appeared.

Maybe it'll finally bring him some relief.

Stop his _goddamn _head from aching all the _goddamn_ time_. _

Or maybe not.

His body continues to tremor uncontrollably, caught between resisting the urge to kill (a first for him) and fighting to bestow death upon a man whom none will mourn. He's consciously aware of the fact that he cannot control the murderous intentions that have overtaken both mind and body, as if he were a spectator rather than the perpetrator in all this. He doesn't have a problem with killing, didn't before and doesn't now. But driven to commit the deed like this, without a say? Not that it really matters. No one around him would know the difference between the two anyway.

Killing this man would be as good as handing himself over to Snow, and he has no intentions of doing that.

Shaking his head in attempt to displace the numbness in his brain, Cato concentrates on the touch of hand resting against his crippled arm. It pulls him back from going over the brink, an anchor to the reasoning he's lost since this whole thing began.

He fights with himself as he pulls the sword away from the tender throat of the Peacekeeper, resisting the urge to cut open the jugular and watch the man bleed out. He removes the sword edge from the fleshsack lying prone on the floor before him, and practically feels the tension within Everdeen's hand lessen ever so slightly from the action.

Cato doesn't outright kill him, and he's proud of that.

He lets his guard down, cocky bastard that he is.

His mistake.

A particularly nasty surge of violence sweeps through him, fading out previous reason and blotting the light from his eyes, and it's all just too much.

Cato unapologetically stabs the Peacekeeper in the shoulder once. And then again.

The sword finds muscle and bone, skewing the arm in a manner that causes rivets of blood to spurt out. The blood gets on Cato's face and paints it like the rain. The metal drives down past tissue, digging and digging a selfish spot for itself until it comes out the other side. The tip of the sword impales itself into the wooden floorboards before he wretches it out again.

He hacks the man's arm off, and doesn't do a very neat job of it.

The little girl next to him barely has the time to gasp before the deed is done.

The voices in his head rejoice until he remembers he has a voice of his own. Empty blue eyes regain a spark of humanity again one final time as he surveys the sword sticking straight up out of the beaten man.

"You're out of your mind, you crazy fuck," Clove whispers, awe-struck. She smiles a nasty grin full of teeth and pops out of existence, just like that.

_Shit. _

The metal stands as a divide between an arm and a body that used to connect together before a sword got in the way. The District 2 victor yanks out the sword, disinterested in the groans the Peacekeeper makes from the swift action, and drops the weapon down as if it bit him. It hits the floor with a loud clatter, the momentum carrying it away from him and off the side of the porch.

"You better get that Peacekeeper out of here, 12," Cato says, remaining in his half crouched position, "Otherwise I will fucking kill him."

* * *

><p>::<p>

"Goddammit," Gale curses, bounding up the steps. The blood on the wood makes him slip out and almost crash to the ground, but he catches himself before he falls. He finishes the short climb up the stairs without regard to caution. Gale reaches down and drags Cato up from the ground, pulling back his arms in attempt to restrain him from causing further damage. The bigger boy snarls, breaking easily free of the brunet's grip, and turns to round upon him.

"Stop it," Katniss snaps, her voice high-pitched from what she has just seen, her stare still fixated on the thrown sword as she gets in the middle of the two brawlers. "Gale, don't make it worse."

"Me?" Her friend answers back incredibly. "This shithead just beat up and stabbed a Peacekeeper! He cut off his arm!"

"You try to restrain me again and he won't be the only one, I can promise you th—"

"You shut up too," Katniss says, drawing a morbidly satisfied look from Gale. She raises a hand to her face to wipe away some of the flyaway blood that is dripping down her face. Paling further, she wipes her hand on the sides of her pants to rid herself of the damning stain.

Gale swears again at her actions. Prim trembles in the corner and Cato, for once, remains silent.

"The Peacekeepers will be here soon enough on another of their rounds," Gale cautions, anger biting at the ends of his words and mixing with fear. "Not only does this look really bad, this _is _really bad. Really, really bad. Especially if this guy dies."

"What do we do?" a soft voice answers. It's Prim pulling herself up from the corner of the porch. She is still freaked out, but puts it aside in order to deal with the situation. She's already crouching down, attempting to staunch the blood that is flowing from the Peacekeeper's mess of an arm. Katniss feels a surge of pride and sorrow, and a bit of a loss.

Thinking quickly and shoving aside her horror, Katniss marshals her troops. "Gale, help get the Peacekeeper into the house. We need to put off a confrontation as long as possible, and being out here in the open isn't going to help."

Her friend doesn't argue, trusting her judgment without question. "And put him where?"

"The spare bedroom. The second room on the right."

Gale brushes past Cato, who still has the audacity to glare at him despite the circumstances, and bends down, shooing Prim away. Looping his arms around the fallen man, Gale struggles to pull him upright. The long days within the mines have taken a toll on his body, sapping his strength. He breathes harder than he would have to lift the other man's weight than he would have done a year ago, but he manages to carry the man inside. Cato watches him struggle and doesn't offer to help. Katniss knows better than to ask.

Within Gale's wake falls a trail of blood, grime, and soot. It drips all over the wooden floorboards and smears between the grooves. Prim watches this, face solemn, as her patient disappears. She knows all too well that there are some wounds that slip beneath the cracks and never quite heal. She stares at the gory trail for a moment longer before stepping forward, feet sluggish. She manages a couple of steps, stopping before the door, and coming to a complete halt.

"Prim? I need you."

Her older sister's words semi-snap her from her fixation. Her pallid lips purse as she gathers herself. She's never looked more like a child. "What can I do?"

Prim wanted Katniss to treat her more like an adult and not to coddle her, and in this case, Katniss chooses to do so. She doesn't really have that much of a choice.

"I know there is an awful man currently lying in our house, and you have every right not to help him. But we can't let him die. Not this time. You know that, right?"

The younger girl nods her head.

"I need you to go in there and do your best to keep him alive until Mom gets here, alright?" Katniss asks, her voice as steady as she can control it. "Can you do that for me?"

Prim brings a rickety hand to her cheek, touching the brilliant red bruise stretching across her face. She winces as she contacts skin, her fingers gingerly touching the surface. Katniss has never seen hatred in her sister, but she does, just a hint, in this small moment. For a second it doesn't look like Prim will agree, but then she lowers her hand and braces her shoulders.

"Get Mom here as fast as you can," she says as professionally as possible for a twelve-year-old girl, "He's losing a lot of blood."

Gale emerges from the hallway as Prim walks into the house. The soot on his work clothes has mixed with the Peacekeeper's red life, smearing around against the folds within the cloth as if a rough mural. The soot turns the blood into murky paint.

"What next?" he asks.

"Go to the village and get my mother and Haymitch as quickly as possible. Don't tell anyone else besides them what's happened."

Gale jerks his head over towards where Cato stands. "And leave you alone with him?"

The blond hasn't moved from his spot since the Peacekeeper was taken into the house. His eyes are transfixed beyond the porch, staring at the sword below them. His body has begun to tremble again, muscles straining against the top layer of skin.

"Shit," Katniss curses, stepping forward to get closer to the District 2 victor. "Look at me," she tells him, echoing her words from earlier. He refuses to budge his stare from where he's cast it. Unwilling to take a risk, Katniss doesn't consider the reaction of her target as she reaches out her hands and places them onto his pale cheeks.

His skin, despite its current pallor, is burning with heat beneath her palms. Something is boiling within him, struggling to get out, and she isn't certain that it's just the heat. It reminds her of illness, except it's not.

When her hands touch his face, Cato visibly flinches from the unexpected contact. Katniss isn't gentle when she guides his face to look at hers, though Cato doesn't put up much resistance, turning his head with the direction her hands take him in. Katniss pins his lack of protest on shock.

His blue eyes meet her own. She briefly studies them, seeing clarity within the depths, and releases his face, satisfied with what she finds. She rubs her hands together in attempt to get rid of the feel of his heat against her skin. It pricks across her fingertips as it burns away.

"It'll be okay. Right?"

"Right. Like I'm really going to leave you with this violent prick_—_"

"Gale, please. We're screwed if that Peacekeeper dies," Katniss tells him, her voice steady but something about her tone begging him not to argue.

The brunet considers her words before giving a stiff nod that tells her he so very badly disagrees. "No, that's where you've got it wrong. _He'll _be the one that's fucked, not you. "

He heads down the porch steps, and upon reaching the ground, breaks into the fastest run he can muster up. She watches him go, aware how Gale's departure left her very much alone with the boy who practically dismembered another person mere minutes ago.

The memory of it makes her want to grab Prim and run as far away from this mess as she possibly could. Cato's proven every fear she's held against him living in the Village in one bloody act. It's not the first time she's questioned his mental stability, but she's never seen it like _this. _

His eyes had been so empty. Void like a black hole that's suddenly vacuumed up all its stars and is left without a lick of light.

She's seen him in a rage. She's seen him bloodthirsty, and she's seen him without reason. But she's never met Cato's eyes without seeing a bit of Cato reflecting back.

It was unnerving. And it wasn't right.

"Come on."

A fleeting look of surprise crosses Cato's face, but he hides it well. If she wasn't so caught up on making sure the light still remained in his eyes, she might have missed it.

"Inviting me into your house, 12? Sure I won't hack you 'n sis to bits too?" The words are meant to be sarcastic, but fall flat as he braces his trembling crippled arm with his good one. His entire body has not stopped shaking this entire time. They rattle his words and take off their biting edge.

She ignores what he says. "Are you coming in or not? There'll be another patrol here soon enough."

Cato stares at her for a moment longer, unsure what to make of the request. He then begins to make his way slowly inside, as if waiting for her to recede the offer and throw him to the wolves. But she doesn't. Katniss stoops to pick up her bow and then walks beside him. She can see the blood on his face is smudged and beginning to dry. Little pieces on the edge of larger splatters have begun to flake off from the tremors of his body. His shaking reminds her of an addict.

The muscles behind the scarred tissue of his arm quake the most, darkness waiting to retake his mind again. Noting how similar the violent trembling is to how it was earlier, Katniss does what she can to keep the situation safe.

She places her hand upon the knotted skin of his arm and keeps Cato grounded.

* * *

><p>::<p>

"Hand me another one of those bandages. No, not that one. It's not enough fabric. What? Yes, that one will do." Mrs. Everdeen bustles over her patient, instructing Prim along as her assistant. The older woman seems to be everywhere at once, working on cauterizing the ruined arm and simultaneously working on the man's broken face.

He doesn't really look so good, but Mrs. Everdeen presses on. She's well aware of the stakes if he were to die, though everyone seems to be reluctant to point out what will happen if he lived. The Peacekeeper was already a nasty prick before Cato did his work upon him—his temperament wasn't exactly going to improve now that he is down one arm.

While Mrs. Everdeen works on her patient, Gale and Katniss work on cleaning up the blood from the porch steps. Nothing screams guilty faster than blood. But that was some time ago, and now all they can do is wait.

Haymitch can't stop pacing. Back and forth he goes, wearing ruts in the floorboards outside the spare bedroom. He only stops to peer into the room every couple of minutes, as if to reaffirm the situation was actually happening, before resuming his anxious motions. Eventually, Mrs. Everdeen shoos them all out to wait in the kitchen, unable to concentrate from the pressure of Haymitch's stare.

Moving into the kitchen doesn't do much to stop Haymitch. He continues to pace, walking circles around the table where Katniss sits with Gale. Cato has pulled a chair to the corner of the room and sits off by himself. He occasionally rubs his good hand against the side of his temple when he thinks no one's looking, but Katniss spots it every time. To her untrained medical eye, it looks like a very bad headache. Migraine perhaps?

While Haymitch paces and Gale throws anxious glances at the window, Katniss watches Cato instead. She sees him reach within his pocket, producing a vial of pills. He places the vial under the crook of his crippled arm while his fingers scrabble at the lid, clearly in a rush to get to the contents inside. The lid pops off and out falls a green pill into his waiting palm.

Cato quickly swallows the pill dry. He doesn't even pause as he shakes another small green pill out, popping it into his mouth without hesitation. It looks like he's going for a third until instinct tells him to look up, feeling eyes upon him. He meets Katniss's open stare, his body going instantly still. Under her gaze, he pops the lid back on his pill bottle and stuffs it back into the pocket from which it came. Cato looks away first.

The opening and closing of door, alongside the patter of shoes, announce Mrs. Everdeen's presence before she ever even appears in the kitchen. The waiting occupants tense as she walks in. Stress rests on her brow and her careful coiffure is in a disarray. Sighing heavily, she heads over to the sink to wash her grimy hands as she tells them the news.

"I'll be honest with you. That man may not make it through the night," she tells them, looking pointedly at Cato. "I've been doing the best I can, but it hasn't been easy."

"What's his full status?" Gale questions. "You know," he shoots Cato a glare of his own, which the blond meets, "Did he lose his arm?"

"I couldn't save his arm," she admits, "the damage was...too messy. He was bleeding out and I don't have the proper equipment a hospital would have. I had to-"

"You had to finish the job," Cato cuts in, his voice blunt.

The older woman blinks. "Yes, I suppose that's one way of putting it."

"What else?" Haymitch mutters, his mouth drawn in a deep line.

"Well, he's still unconscious. He's suffering from head trauma from the repeated blows to his skull. I'm unsure at this time if he has any resulting damage within his brain. He's also loss a lot of blood from his wounds, and that's not good. It puts a further strain on his body, making his heart work even harder."

"How do you think this is going to end?"

"I'm not really sure. I've done what I can. I don't even know if he's going to wake up, I don't think it's just a normal unconscious state, it's more like his body has shut down from shock. If he pulls through, it'll be up to him when and if he wakes up. He could heal and just never wake up at all. Or he could die. It's too difficult to tell at this point."

The room is quiet for a moment as those within digest Mrs. Everdeen's words. They aren't easy words to take in, nor is the situation.

"This is all _your _fault. I knew you couldn't control your goddamn violent temper. I said that, didn't I?" Gale says to Cato, looking at Katniss for support. "And look what happened. Man's dying down the hall and we'll have Peacekeepers breathing down our necks soon enough."

"Unbunch your panties. You sound like a goddamn girl with your whining," Cato snaps back, giving him a dirty look, "You don't understand anything, country boy."

"I don't, do I? Well, let's see. You punched a legal official to the point of a fucking coma and you cut off his arm. Seems pretty fucking clear to me that you're as violent a monster as you've ever been, douchebag. Were you trying a make a copy of yourself by mutilating that man?"

Cato's eyes narrow to something dangerous. "I didn't like you before, but now you'll be the first one I'll-"

"You'll what? You won't do anything," Haymitch cuts in. The District 12 victor has reached his patience level a long time along, and hearing Mrs. Everdeen's diagnosis has soured what dregs he had left. He radiates disgust.

"You are a very stupid boy," Haymitch tells Cato softly. The room is quiet, but no one within has trouble hearing the older man. "I had my own doubts about you. You know I don't like you and I'm well aware you don't like me. I would have thrown you out of this town if I could have. You and your kind are nothing but trouble."

Gale looks at Haymitch as he talks, nodding his head along to his words. A smug look eases itself across his face, arms crossed. Mrs. Everdeen looks between the District 2 exile and her neighbor, her expression reserved and difficult to decode. The older man continues, uninterrupted, words streaming from his mouth without a filter and without care.

"I warned you about endangering the people here, and you didn't listen to me. Your actions and temper have all be invited Snow to our door with a welcome mat. I don't agree with much District 2 stands for, but they were right about you_—_is there anything you don't fuck up?"

Katniss, listening to both Gale and Haymitch attack, has remained relatively quiet. Her mentor and best friend aren't exactly wrong with what they say, and if she hadn't been standing close enough to Cato, she probably would have agreed. But they hadn't been there, they hadn't seen what she's seen. They hadn't heard him talking to a ghost and they didn't see the way the light left his eyes in his acts of violence.

She isn't a fool. She knows better than any of them how vicious Cato can be, having experienced it firsthand. But becauseshe's experienced it first hand, she knows that whatever the hell happened out there wasn't normal. Games-Cato would have never tossed away his sword as if he feared the thing.

Katniss has more pieces of the puzzle than she knows what to do with, and no matter how she plays with them, she can't get it all to fit.

As Haymitch continues to rant, Cato's uncontrollable twitching subtly crops up again. It's only within the muscles of his crippled arm, but Katniss can see them beginning to jump from where she sits. She's kept her eyes trained on the other boy the entire time, and when Cato's eyes begin the darken and the light begins to leave, she knows what's coming.

She may not have all the pieces yet, but she's learning quite a bit about the ones she holds in her hands.

"Stop it, Haymitch. Lay off."

The attention of the room snaps to the dark-haired girl, the expression on all faces besides her mother's would be comical if not for the seriousness of the situation. Gale's mouth hangs open, Haymitch stares at her wide-eyed, and Cato looks at her as if she's said something in a foreign language.

She's surprised at herself, to be honest, as the words slip out her mouth in defense of the boy she feared the most. But they slip out all the same.

"Going back and forth like this isn't going to help. Blaming and yelling at each other accomplishes what? Nothing, that's what. We can't lose our heads."

Her mentor looks at her as if she's suddenly sprouted two heads, and it makes her very uncomfortable. "Katniss, have you gone a touch of crazy yourself? That boy over there," he jerks his hand over to point at Cato for emphasis, just in case she's forgotten whom they were talking about, "He's dangerous."

"Yes."

"So, then why...?" Haymitch peers at her, confused. "We should just let him deal with this mess on his own."

"That may be true, and I can understand why you feel that way. But I-"

"But you what? I have no interest in sticking my neck out for him, and I don't know why you seem to think you have to."

The puzzle pieces are jumbled in her hands. She doesn't know yet where some pieces fit, but she is continuously gaining an understanding of their shape. Others pieces, however, have already snapped into place. And there's one particular piece of this whole mess that she can't quite ignore. And that piece is-

"He beat up the Peacekeeper defending my sister. This thing started because he helped Prim when she was being harassed, and I can't...can't ignore that."

The doorbell rings and their time is up.

* * *

><p>::<p>

Gale is sent to open the door, rather, he volunteers himself. "Can I help you?"

Several Peacekeepers stand on porch. Their body language convey they don't have time for crap, and seeing Gale open the door instead of the house's owners doesn't help with their dispositions. The Peacekeeper in the middle stands a bit shorter than the others who flank him, but he seems to be the leader of the band.

"Good evening. May we come in?"

Gale keeps his face perfectly blank. "May I ask why?"

"The Peacekeeper sent on his routine rounds in the Victor's Village never reported back into Headquarters. He is currently missing, and as such, we wish to take a look around to find out what's happened," the lead Peacekeeper answers, tone clipped and curt.

Gale leans against the door frame, keeping his muscular body blocking most of the way. "And why would you assume he would be in the Everdeen house?"

"And why would you, a citizen of a slums district, question your higher authority?" The lead Peacekeeper taunts, taking pleasure while watching Gale visibly bristle, "We don't have to speak with rift-raft, boy."

"Well, maybe you would answer the question if a victor asked," Haymitch interjects, appearing behind Gale. He stands strong next to the younger man, prepared to face off in the inevitable conflict.

The lead Peacekeeper smiles, delighted in Haymitch's appearance. "Ah, finally. At least someone who would have some respect of Panem's system of justice instead of this trash. A victor of the Hunger Games no doubt has much respect for the Capitol."

"Respect? Naturally so. But I'm afraid, respect aside, that I must also ask why you want to search the Everdeen house? Katniss is a very stand-up sort of victor, as I'm sure you know."

"Stand-up?" The Peacekeeper smirks. He runs a finger down the outside length of the door. When he brings the finger away from the wooden structure, the skin is crusted with half-dried blood that has been missed in the initial cleanup. "I believe blood on the doorway is a good enough reason, eh?"

Haymitch stares at the blood on the Peacekeeper's finger, not letting any of his real emotion show. Pasting a smile on his face, he meets the other man's accusatory gaze. "Well, yes, about that."

"About what?" The Peacekeeper's grin promises lethal things.

"Gentlemen, I'm afraid there has been...an accident."

"Oh? An accident. Hm. Curious."

"I'm sure Gale here would have mentioned it earlier if given the chance. Being called trash tends to be a bit distracting."

The Peacekeeper gives a devilish snort of disbelief. "Oh, I'm sure. Now, may we come in?" The larger Peacekeeper standing next to the leader cracks his knuckles and eyes Gale with undisclosed dislike.

"Of course. Please come inside."

Upon entering the Everdeen house, Haymitch leads the way into the bedroom where the fallen man lay. Gale is tense beside him, but Haymitch, an expert liar, betrays none of his worry. This is just another Game to trick his way through, even though the consequences of winning the last time are still fresh in his mind, despite the decades.

Opening the door to the bedroom, Haymitch ushers the Peacekeepers inside. They immediately clusters around their fallen comrade, cursing his horrendous-looking condition. One of the men, the medic of the group, begins to check the vitals of his patient. When they notice the missing arm, a particularly vicious Peacekeeper snarls at the town drunk, who stands patiently in the doorway.

"What the hell happened to his arm? Even better, what happened to him?" He asks, voice guttural and angry.

Haymitch pauses for a moment, inwardly wrestling with something within himself he hasn't had enough time to come to a conclusion about. All of this was happening so fast_—_the attack on Prim, Cato's vicious return attack, Katniss's reaction to the whole thing, the Peacekeepers appearing_—_but mostly, for Haymitch, it was Katniss's reaction he wrestled with the most.

But a decision on what to do must be made, and Haymitch makes the best one he thinks he can. "I'm afraid, gentlemen, that he was attacked."

"Attacked?" The leader asks. "By whom?"

Haymitch opens his mouth to answer, but it isn't his words that come out.

"He was attacked by rebels from District 11," Katniss says, appearing from the hallway. Haymitch looks taken back, and she looks at him as if daring her mentor to correct her. "I'm sure you all know about the rebellion that went on recently in District 11. It looked like some of the rebels wandered into District 12 after escaping from their own District, and decided to retaliate here."

"A rebel?" The vicious Peacekeeper asks skeptically, "Is that what happened, Victor Abernathy?"

"You doubt me?" Katniss asks. "Come into the kitchen. My mother was the medic who treated him after we found him. She'll be able to tell you how he is."

"We didn't ask _you, _Victor Everdeen," The leader snaps, "Clearly you believe what you say. But we were talking to Victor Abernathy."

Haymitch glances at Katniss, who stares back. Haymitch is a blank slate of emotion, but she knows her mentor well enough to tell he does not appreciate being forced into this position against his better judgment. He believes covering for Cato is wrong, but to follow that path now would accuse Katniss of lying to the authority. Realizing this, he mentally curses the District 2 boy for the umpteenth time for causing so much trouble.

"Yes," Haymitch answers, grudgingly slow, "That's what happened."

"Hm. Curious."

Katniss and Haymitch remain silent as the band of Peacekeepers study them, clearly not buying the story. "We'd like to speak with the medic as you've so kindly offered, Victor Everdeen. Please take us to her."

"Sure," she nods stiffly, "This way, please."

The medic Peacekeeper remains in the room with the fallen man while the other two follow Katniss and Haymitch down the hallway and into the bright kitchen. Mrs. Everdeen and Prim have taken the two seats abandoned at the kitchen table, while Cato has remained from where he was previously in the corner. All three look up as the others approach, bracing themselves for the worst.

"Can I get any of you something to drink?" Mrs. Everdeen graciously offers, all finesse. She rises from the table.

"No, we don't need anything besides answers, dear lady," the leader says. "I've been told that District 11 rebels attacked our comrade, and you're the medic whom worked on him."

"Rebels?" Mrs. Everdeen affirms, unsure of the lies that were clearly told and cautious to say anything that would differ. She forges on ahead, embracing the obvious lie without batting another eye. "Yes, nasty lot of them. Attacking a legal authority! I'm just happy we were here to do what we can to help."

"Hm. Curious."

The Peacekeeper leader studies the older woman without blatant uncaring, uninterested in what she has to say. He looks from Mrs. Everdeen over to Prim, who still sits pale at the table. He notes the bruise still shocking across her face with a quip of his lip before moving on to Cato. The leader immediately spots the broken skin stretching across Cato's knuckles.

"You there, boy," the leader barks, "What happened to your hand?"

Cato doesn't flinch. Meeting the Peacekeeper's accusatory gaze, he doesn't look away. "This?" He holds up his battered hand. "I got this fighting off the rebels that were attacking your guy."

"Hm, is that so?"

"Yes," Cato coolly answers, "It is."

"Really?" The vicious Peacekeeper says, "Awfully convenient that you happened injure your hand that way. Did you know that our friend suffers from trauma to the head? The same type of damage generally inflicted from blunt objects..." The man pauses, drawing out the moment with a pointed look at Cato's hand, "...or from the blows of fists."

"I'm sure the rebel whom Cato punched isn't feeling too great at the moment either," Katniss interjects, her arms crossed against her chest. "But considering what happened, I think you should be happy that he was there at all to help you friend."

"Yes..I'm sure he was of great _help _to him," the lead Peacekeeper drawls, "But, I think perhaps that something might have happened here tonight."

"We have no reason to lie."

"I think you do."

"Now, now. Gentlemen, you have three victors and a medic telling you what happened, and that's not good enough for you?" Haymitch weighs in, fully committing himself despite his misgivings, "You can't go around accusing victors of such atrocities without proof, and we're saying that we saved this man from a rebel attack. And that's what happened."

The medic Peacekeeper rejoins his party, having finished his initial work on the fallen man two doors down the hallway. "We have to move him to a hospital soon. The work done to save him is good, but I don't know if it'll be enough to pull him through. We have to go."

"Anything else?"

"Well, from what I've seen, there's no way to reattach his arm. He'll need a prosthetic. And he's also suffered from head trauma from repeated blows to the head. I'm uncertain if he's going to regain consciousness at this point in time," the medic answers, unknowingly agreeing with Mrs. Everdeen's original diagnosis of the situation.

"Such a shame, that head trauma business," the leader's voice oozes, oily and without care. "Looks like we'll have to wait a bit. It'll be quite interesting to see what our fallen friend will have to say about those _rebels _whom so wrongfully attacked him when he wakes up."

"Oh, I'm sure _if _he wakes up, whatever he tells you will collaborate with everything we've already told you," Haymitch corrects him.

"Hm. Is that so?" The lead Peacekeeper muses, "Curious."

The group of Peacekeepers gather their comrade without further commentary. The vicious one of the lot even looks mildly disappointed not to have the chance to inflict the justice of the law upon those they very obviously thought were lying. With a promise to send more men to search the surrounding woods for the 'rebels,' the Peacekeepers depart. The leader even uses the severed arm to wave goodbye as they descend the porch steps.

Closing the door behind them, Katniss breaths a heavily sigh, slumping against the wood of the door. Tired and drained, all she really wants to do is to go to bed, pulling the covers over her head and hide from the world for a day. She entertains the thought momentarily, and then forces herself to dismiss it. There is no good in thinking about things that aren't possible.

She returns to the kitchen, eyes heavily in their sockets. "They're gone, hopefully for good."

"Not if that son of a bitch wakes up. And then they won't be knocking at your doorstep anymore_—_they'll be busting the door down," Haymitch says.

"Haymitch..." Katniss starts, aware that all the eyes of the room were upon her. She fidgets, unhappy from the attention. "Thanks for going along with it."

"Don't thank me. Don't you dare. I'm so blindingly angry with you right now," Haymitch spits, the force of his suppressed emotion busting immediately to the surface. "I'm going home now so I don't say something I'll regret. I'll deal with you in the morning."

"I'm going too, Catnip. It's not going to be a fun day at the mines tomorrow morning. But if you need anything, don't be afraid to let me know. Remember to keep your guard up," Gale says, worried, "You'll need it around him."

"Gale..."

"No, seriously. Watch yourself," He repeats, giving Cato an unfiltered blast of mistrust and caution. Cato looks back, face blank, unwilling to give Gale any bit of satisfaction. "That one's crazy."

Upon the word 'crazy,' Cato's disregard slips away. The skin around his eyes tighten and his teeth are bared, exposed, as his snarls, "You say that one more time and I'll mess you up. I'm not crazy. Shut the fuck up."

"Whether you are crazy or not is something I don't care enough to debate about," Haymitch interrupts. "But the one thing that I do care about would be us sticking our necks out for someone like you. If that man should wake up, we're all fucked."

Cato abruptly stands up from where he sits. Ignoring the others in the room, he aggressively walks to the back door of the kitchen and lets himself out.

The door slams with a _thud _that makes them all jump as he yanks it closed behind him.

* * *

><p>::<p>

Prim goes to bed while Katniss helps her mother to clean up. Her body demands she go to sleep, but her mind is buzzing in attempt to process everything that has happened. She moves the chair from the corner, lifting it off the ground and walks it back over to the table. Running a hand over the smooth wood, she turns to her mother. For the first time in a long while, she wants her mother's opinion.

"Do you think I did the right thing?" She asks, uncertain to hear the answer.

Mrs. Everdeen studies her daughter. "I think Haymitch and Gale want you think that you didn't."

"What about you?"

Her mother walks over to where she stands and sits down at the table. She motions for Katniss to join her, which she does, sliding into the chair Cato abandoned a half hour ago. "What is making you doubt yourself?"

"I'm not sure if it's actually safe to live so close to him," Katniss admits, fiddling with her hands. "They weren't close to him when he went to stab the Peacekeeper. It was as if..." Her voice trails away.

"As if what?"

"I don't know. This is going to sound stupid," She says, frustrated, "But it's as if something was off with him. More off than how he usually is."

Mrs. Everdeen's brow furrows as she absorbs her daughter's observations. "What do you mean?"

"It's like...um, like whatever makes him himself was gone? I know he's violent to begin with, and that's definitely him. But what happened on the porch...it was as if it wasn't him. Or not entirely all him. I don't know why I even noticed there was a difference. This is stupid."

"It's not stupid. It's not easy to voice an opinion that's not so popular, but you did, whether it was right or not, and whether you liked the person or not. It's brave."

"Or it was stupid," Katniss shrugs off her mother's praise. "Especially since I'm not even sure what I'm talking about, or if there's even _anything _to talk about. Maybe everything that's happened since the Games has just driven him beyond whatever sanity he had to begin with."

"Or maybe not. But if you have any doubt, then I think what you did was correct. I trust you."

"But how can you live comfortably knowing that he can snap again? And he's right next door to us."

"I think it's good to be cautious, and I'm not saying I trust that boy. He has a lot of...issues. But I do want to thank him."

"Wha...thank him?" Katniss asks, incredulous and slightly angry. "Why would you want to thank the boy whose tried so hard to kill me? Mom-"

"But he didn't kill you. And he helped my other daughter."

"I can't believe what you're saying, " Katniss stands up from the table, pushing her chair back. "How can you forget the hell he put me through before and after the Games? He tried his best to _kill _me."

"I haven't forgotten that. It's not something a mother can ignore."

"So then why would you_—_" She trails off, still unable to comprehend her mother. Mrs. Everdeen looks up at her agitated daughter, expression calm and asking for understanding.

"I hate him for trying to hurt you. I hate that boy more than I thought I could possibly hate anyone, besides President Snow for putting you in that position in the first place. But he helped my other daughter, my Primrose. Should I just ignore that?"

Katniss clenches her fists. "So that means you can ignore what happened to me?"

"Not at all. Neither of the two actions can wipe out the other or balance things out. Cato does not have a clean slate simply because he did one good deed."

"What are you trying to say then?"

"He doesn't have a clean slate with me. But I've decided to base my opinion on him from what he does here on out, away from the Games and his home District."

Katniss stares at her mother, trying to understand her viewpoint. "That sounds too cold and logical for an actual person to think that way after what he's done."

"It's not logical, " Mrs. Everdeen protests gently, "But it's more of an understanding."

"An understanding? With Cato? Mom, what could you possibly have an understanding about with him?"

"Well, I-" The older woman's voice breaks off for the first time, betraying that she is not the picture of calm she's trying so desperately to portray. The leak of emotions startles Katniss, who slides back into the seat. She debates with herself whether or not she should place her hands over her mother's, hesitation holding her back.

"I'm not very proud of how I behaved towards you and your sister," Mrs. Everdeen manages to get out. "How I acted after your father...after your father..." Her voice trails off again, the words stuck in her throat. She tries again to no avail before giving up. "Well, look at that. All this time and I still have problems talking about him." She offers Katniss a weak smile, something which unlocks her hesitation. Katniss reaches forward to gently place her hands over her mother's worn ones.

"I know you'll never forgive me for what I let happen to you and yours sister, Katniss," Mrs. Everdeen admits. "I know it because it's changed how you act around me. But after the Games, after you've come home, you've changed again. I know you don't exactly trust me, but you're more willing to open up to me than you were before."

"Mom..."

"No, let me finish or I'll never get a chance to tell you. I don't blame you for how you acted before the Games, as if I could abandon you at any point in time. But now it's as if you've combined how you treated me before my...incident...and what happened after. I like to tell myself that it's as if you combined the two parts of your childhood, the good and the bad, and placed me somewhere in between."

Mrs. Everdeen squeezes Katniss's frozen hands. "And there are no words in this lifetime that would allow for me to tell you how grateful I am that you have done that for me. To give me that chance."

Her daughter doesn't know what to say. Words have never been her forte, and after a confession like that, she is left at a loss at how to respond. She does the only thing she can_—_she squeezes her mother's hands back as tightly as she can, looks her in the eyes, and tells her that she loves her.

"I know you do. And I love you too. You're my daughter, one of the most precious things in the world to me. And I'll never lose you like that again."

"I didn't know you thought that."

"It's fine. It doesn't matter."

"It does matter."

"There are other things that matter more right now, specifically the District 2 boy who is still sitting out on our back porch, looking like he has nowhere to go."

Katniss jerks her head over towards the backdoor. Through the kitchen windows, she can see the porch light still glowing faintly against the dark, but not much more. "He's still here?"

"Yes, I saw him out the window when I was over by the sink."

"What should I do?"

"I think you know what you have to do if you want answers."

Whether she likes it or not, Katniss knows she's right. She gives her mother's hand one final squeeze before standing up from the table. She squares her shoulders and walks towards the backdoor, her mother watching her daughter go.

Mrs. Everdeen may not be the brightest woman, or the bravest, or the strongest. She has done wrong by her children, and she cannot take that back. But she's tried, and her daughter has given her the chance to do so without forgetting everything she's done in the past.

And that's the point, isn't it? Merging together the good with the bad, changing it all into gray as it gets muddled up. Like the color of ash, the gray can cause either side to rise up or sink beneath as true intentions for change are revealed.

You do not forget. You do not forgive. But you go on.

Katniss recognizes this from her own relationship with her mother, and now likewise with the victor that has caused her so much trouble in figuring out what to do with him.

So she heads toward the door, twists the knob, and goes outside to talk with Cato.

* * *

><p>::<p>

**As of yesterday, **_Convergence_ **has turned**** one years old! Woooo! I wanted to get this chapter out for it, but a day late isn't the worse. Next weekend is going to be quite busy for me since it's Wrestlemania (I am a big WWE fan, don't judge), so I'll be doing nerdy wrestling things and screaming like idiot at show. It's right by where I live this year, so I have tickets to go for the whole weekend affair. There's no way I would have had the time to work on this story, so I'm glad I was able to finish it now. **

**As always, thanks to all those who took the time to review!**


	18. Hatred

"But the night air's so sweet, I can't bear returning to that stuffy cage of a room. And what difference does it make? Whether we speak or not?"

__—_The Hunger Games, _pg 148

**Convergence**

Chapter Eighteen

Tragedy can draw people together, but sometimes all it takes is some honesty and a little bit of letting go.

* * *

><p>::<p>

The nighttime air is sticky and humid and there isn't a much of a moon. The summer season may be nearing the end of its days, but tonight would indicate otherwise. The wave of musty air is suffocating and hits in a wave as soon as Katniss opens the door.

The porch light is beaming a sickly yellow light across the small structure, poorly illuminating the short distance between the back door and the porch steps. Cato sits facing away from the door, settled on the second step, and doesn't turn around even when he hears the creak of the door hinge swinging open.

Katniss steps out on the porch, hesitating at his lack of reaction. She doesn't know what kind of mental state he's in, and she has more than enough questions of her own that probably won't improve it—that is, if even he chooses to answer. There's a knife she keeps hidden in her boot, and she takes comfort in its weight pressing against the calf of her leg. She doesn't plan on things turning ugly, but she didn't survive this long without being prepared.

She takes a tentative step forward, the silent motion of her feet barely disturbing the murky stillness. But somehow, this prompts Cato to break his own silence. Without even bothering to look, he says, "Don't worry, I'm leaving now anyway, 12."

Katniss crosses the small porch and joins him on the steps. She settles herself on the top step, allowing him to retain control over the second step, and doesn't crowd him. "How did you know it was me?"

He still doesn't look at her, but she spots the sides of his mouth draw up in an ironic smile. "Who else would it be?"

"There are other people who live here, you know."

"Yeah, but none of them walk the way you do."

Katniss leans her head against the wooden step railing, feeling slightly uncomfortable to be so scrutinized. "Didn't think you had it memorized."

Cato grumbles out something similar to an offended _hmph, _but he's appeased when he realizes she's settling in and not chasing him off her porch just yet. "I spent a good portion of my time hunting you. I know what you sound like because it's a noise I was constantly listening for."

"Oh." She's not sure what to say to that. "I didn't think I was that noisy."

"You weren't. That's why you were a pain in the ass to find."

Katniss accepts this with a smirk. "I'll take that as a compliment. I knew I was quiet."

"You were. And then you weren't. Not when you were pissed off. Then you were loud."

"Well, I made it out alive, didn't I? Must've done something right."

"Or the rest of us did something wrong," He counters, but his voice is missing the malice that normally accompanies it. If anything, he sounds nearly as weary as she does.

"Maybe we all did something wrong," she muses, the morbid thoughts she usually kept contained springing forth to the front of her mind. Being around this ruthless boy tended to make them leak out. "Maybe that's why we're still here."

Cato's gaze shifts slightly over towards her, looking at her from the corner of his eyes. "Punishment?"

"Perhaps."

Her companion doesn't say anything right away. He draws his gaze away from her again, directing it back out towards the dark forest. He absentmindedly rubs his crippled arm, smoothing his fingers over the scarred flesh before he speaks. "At this point, who knows? Makes more sense than any other reason I could come up with."

"It doesn't make it any less depressing."

"No, it doesn't."

Katniss shifts in an attempt to get comfortable. The wooden porch step is unyielding beneath her, but she isn't in a hurry to move. After everything that has happened today, she would have assumed she'd be throttling answers out of Cato by now. In reality, she's really just as tired as he is.

She wanted those answers, sure, but the boy on the step below kept creating more questions. Once she thought she'd finally gotten a grip on his character, there he was showing her another facet she wouldn't have thought existed. What is there to make of a boy like that?

Cato slips another of those pills into his mouth, trying not to draw attention to it. He slides it past the side of his mouth and swallows it dry. The rattle of the nearly empty pill bottle gives him away, and he winces as the noise hooks her interest. He continues to stare straightforward into the forest as he pockets his bottle of medication, unwilling to show weakness even after she's already seen him at his worst.

Katniss strains to read the pill bottle as subtly as she can, but ultimately cannot make out the words.

"Cato?" His name slips from her lips and falls into the muggy night air. It curls like steam around his brain.

"What now?" He answers gruffly.

She opens her mouth as if to speak, but pauses, words caught inside of her. Cato tenses at her silence, fingers closing around the cylinder shape of his pill bottle. It rattles as he grips it. She inhales, pulling the words to the back of her throat, and then exhales, forcing them out from the cluttered place inside of her chest.

"I want to thank you."

The words come out in an awkward rush, but to Cato's ears, they are drawn out by the syllable, slow and startling. He moves slightly forward as she speaks, as if drawn in by her words, his eyes betraying themselves with surprise.

Katniss shifts on the step, uneasy under his blatant stare. Blood threatens to flush her cheeks and turn them a ghastly shade of pink. It is dark enough to hide it, sure, but it doesn't mask the heat that throbs up under her skin from embarrassment. Her conversation with her mother has led her here, as she echoes Mrs. Everdeen's words (and actually means them). She'd see it through, regardless of her mortification.

His open expression becomes guarded, going from shock to suspicion. "You what?"

She unwraps her arms just enough so she can study her hands. Her cuticles never looked so interesting, or so ungroomed. "Are you really going to make me say it again? You heard me the first time."

"Yeah, I did. Doesn't mean I actually believe it came from your mouth, 12."

"That's cold."

"But true."

"Debatable."

"Not really," he says, eyeing her. "Never thought I would hear those words from you."

"I never thought you'd give me a reason to," she shoots back, refusing to look at him.

"I wasn't aware I had."

"You're many things, Cato, but stupid isn't one of them. You know why I'm thanking you."

"Stop saying that. It's weird."

Giving up on her cuticles, Katniss directs her attention back over towards the boy on the step below hers. "I doubt you'll give me a reason to say it again, so suck it up. It's weird for me too. But just let me do this right, otherwise I'll never be able to."

Katniss leans slightly forward, causing Cato to jerk back. She has a serious look on her face, steeled and determined to do this thing properly. Smoothing her hands against the fabric of her pants, she says, "Thank you for helping my sister the way you did and for being there when I couldn't. My entire family thanks you."

Her words come out monotone and uncomfortable, but Cato hears the sincerity behind them. The simple honesty in what she says alerts him that no one has put her up to this.

She's seen him flip his shit and lose his mind to violence in his most raw form. And yet, here she is, sitting next to the most violent tribute of the Seventy-Fourth Games and feeling as if she owed him a formal thank you. With nothing but bad blood and poor circumstances linking them, Katniss approached him anyway.

That alone makes him more uncomfortable than he'll ever be able to describe.

He didn't deserve thanks.

He realizes, on some level, how this situation really should have gone. That if anything, he should be thanking her for helping him (though he'd rather cut off his tongue before doing that). If not for her help, Haymitch and his yappy companion would have given him up without a second thought, leaving him gods know where with that bunch of Peacekeepers. Or worse.

Most people would show some sort of gratitude.

He doesn't thank her, though.

He doesn't know how.

Besides, even if he did—

Luckily, Katniss doesn't seem to expect a response or a thank you in return. She forges on ahead, in for a penny and in for a pound.

"We are grateful you were there to help her. But I want to know why," She steadies herself as his face goes blank. "What made you help my sister like that?"

Cato's expression is perfectly trained as she studies him, checking for cracks and answers. He wears his District 2 mask with the ease of a Career and reveals nothing.

"Maybe I think she's a good brat."

Katniss gives a haughty snort. "I doubt it. You don't like anyone."

"That's not true."

"It isn't?"

"No.

She looks at him skeptically. "You think of people in terms of allies and enemies."

"Don't see anything wrong with that," Cato answers. "Keeps you alive from one day to the next. It's smart."

"But that's evaluating a person. It's not _liking _them."

"I don't see the difference."

"I didn't think you would."

"You mocking me?" Cato peers at her through the dim porch light. "I've never had a problem with thinking that way."

"No, I'm just stating a fact," Katniss looks steadily back. She's not sure when the point in time came that she stopped mincing her words around him, but it doesn't even register with her that she is being too honest with him. "You don't like anyone because you don't know _how _to like anyone."

The boy on the step below lets this sink in. "Does it matter?"

"I think it does," she tells him calmly, "Because the Games are over and you're not in District 2 anymore. You'll find that social skills go a long way in everyday life."

"You and I have different opinions on that."

"Maybe we do. But it doesn't make you any more believable when you're trying to tell me you saved my sister because you liked her as a person."

Cato doesn't let her phase him. He responds back as if she hasn't made a completely valid point, telling her, "Maybe I was just looking for a bit of violence to test how my training's been going. See how far my arm can really go."

Katniss looks down at his arm and then back up at his face. It's clear from her expression that she doesn't believe him one bit. "That could be true, except for one thing."

"For what?"

"Well, if you were looking to test yourself out after almost dying, why would you go after a Peacekeeper? You could've sided with the Peacekeeper and went after a much weaker target," she says frankly, "You could have just gone after my sister."

"Why would I want to do that? Your sister isn't a test. There's no point," he retaliates.

"Seriously?" She doesn't bother masking her doubt. "Coming from you, you'll understand why that's hard to believe."

"Don't be so full of yourself."

"Come on. I was with you in the Games, remember? I know how you are. You didn't care if a person could defend themselves or not. You killed them just because you could."

"That's how you play the Game. You conveniently seem to forget that all the time."

"Not the point," she says, and Cato notes she doesn't exactly deny it. "But you would've killed Prim if she went into the Games instead of me."

"Yeah, I would have," he agrees, as if daring her to be angry at him for saying that truth out loud. "I wouldn't have even thought about it."

He expects her rage as soon as he finishes speaking. What he gets is only a quirk of her lips instead.

"I wouldn't have believed you if you said anything else," she says. Her eyes hold a knowing look but none of the anger he would have bet on. She accepts that he would have killed Prim in the Games because it's something she's known from the start. She also accepts that he protected her now that the Games are over.

Her acceptances, and that knowing look, leave Cato further unsettled. He analyzes her from the corner of his eyes, trying to connect the girl he thought he knew together with the girl who helped him and accepted his admission so calmly.

Katniss makes him feel awkward, only this time it's not for his lack of judgment or his mangled arm. It's awkward in a way he's never experienced before, and it makes him feel as if he has to defend his statements. The feeling is foreign and somewhat unsettling.

"I don't care about attacking little brats," he reiterates, "Like I already said, there's no challenge in that. As long as she leaves me alone I have no interest in wasting my time with her. I've got better things to do."

Katniss doesn't answer him. Instead, she reaches down and fiddles around for something in one of her pockets. He can't see what it is, but he knows she's found it when a bit of her tongue pokes out from the side of her mouth and her eyes light with easy triumph.

"Here," she says, holding out her hand to him. "Now I don't feel nearly as bad giving you this."

In the center of her palm rests a small jar. He looks at it, uncomprehending. "What's that?"

"It's more of the medicine Prim made for you before. Here, take it," she says, jostling the jar in her hand for emphasis. Cato doesn't make any motion to retrieve it. Confusion mars his brow and crinkles between his eyes.

"Why are you giving me that?"

"Because what am I supposed to do with it?" Impatient with his lack of moment, Katniss places the small jar down upon the step Cato sits and nudges it towards him with the tip of a finger. "Just take it."

Her actions prompt him to scoop the jar up with his good arm. He transfers it into the palm of his crippled arm and manages to lock his fingers around it. This surprises Katniss, who remembers how he struggled to hold anything at all in that hand a month or so back. He doesn't hold it with ease, but the trembles are less and his fingers marginally less stiff.

"Why are you giving me this?" He repeats again.

"Prim wanted to give it to you, actually. She meant it as a thank you gift," she says, noticing how he immediately looks further uncomfortable once the concept of gratitude is brought in. "She made it with whatever ingredients she had left over from before today. Prim would have given it to you herself, but she's exhausted and my mother sent her to bed. So she asked me to give it to you."

Cato's fingers tighten around the jar as his fidgets under the weight of her words. It doesn't sit right with him, and he tells her as much. "What's wrong with you and your family? Have you all gone crazy?"

"That's not a very nice why to say thank you," Katniss says, sarcastic but not cruel. "Especially after I just gave you one a few minutes ago."

"I might have helped the brat out, but I also almost killed a Peacekeeper. I cut off his arm. I put him in a coma. And you're giving me medicine that may help me become stronger? You're _thanking _me for that?" Cato says, incredulous.

"We're thanking you for helping my sister, not for the violence. But it's you, that's how you are," Katniss tells him, her voice firm. "Not that that excuses it. As for what happened..." She trails off, hesitating. Her hesitation puts Cato ill at ease, sensing that there's a chance he won't like where she's going with this.

But Katniss wants answers. She needs them. So she asks, even if it may not be in her own best interest.

"What happened earlier?"

His answer is quick. "I almost killed a Peacekeeper who was harassing your sister," he says as if she is stupid.

"No, there's more to it than that," she persists. "I _know _there's more to it."

"There isn't."

"There is."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You know _exactly _what I'm talking about."

The muscular boy feels the tissue in his ruined arm begin to twitch. He forces himself to remain calm, telling himself that there's no way she knows. She can't know. It's his dirty secret, his private battle.

For her to know would be admitting that there's actually something not right with him. And it's a big not right.

"I really don't. I'm a violent guy. I kill people. I hurt things. That Peacekeeper isn't any different," Cato says coolly, hiding the tension overtaking his body as best he can. She notices anyway.

"I don't believe you."

"Why should I give a shit if you believe me?"

"Because it sounds like you don't even believe yourself."

"Don't talk as if you know me."

"I know enough about you to realize that something isn't right," Katniss insists, unable to stop herself.

"Shut up, I'm not listening to you spout off this crap anymore," he says, agitated. His face is tight and his lips are pulled back in a thin-lipped sneer. "Just shut your mouth and drop it."

She drops a name instead.

"Why did it sound as if you were talking to Clove?"

Cato freezes, and then explodes.

"Shut up, slumrat," Cato hisses through his teeth. Spit flies out as he talks, as if fleeing from his barely bottled rage. He slams his fist hard against the wooden step, both the noise and action making the girl next to him jump. "Don't say that name."

His anger alone betrays him, but the most telling is within the moment before the anger, when Cato pauses temporarily as she drops Clove's name. It gives her confirmation that she's right. There is something wrong, something messed up beyond his usual penchant for aggression, and his reaction proves it.

"Deny it all you want," she says, "But we both know that's not the truth."

"You have _no _idea what you're talking about, 12, so don't pretend you do."

"So make me understand."

"I owe you nothing."

"I helped you against the Peacekeepers."

"Oh, so you're going to hold that above me now?" Cato barks out a dry laugh, bordering on a lack of control, "Is that how this is going to go?"

"I'm not. But I need to know if something like whatever happened this afternoon is going to happen again," Katniss replies as calmly as she can. Losing her own temper and screaming back will guide the conversation nowhere. She knows meeting the blond head-on with anger would leave her consumed by his own.

"You just want to know if you made a mistake," he says, "That's it, isn't it? Worried I'm going to snap again and only this time go after the family?"

He doesn't notice his mistake, but Katniss does. "Snap, Cato?"

The slip knocks some breath out of him, but the frantic emotion remains in his eyes. "That's not what I meant. Don't twist what I'm saying."

"I'm not. That's exactly how you meant it and you know it."

"What, you think you're better than me, 12? Stop acting like you know best, because you don't. You don't know anything at all."

"So tell someone, because whatever you're doing isn't working," she insists, and then surprises herself when she says, "Tell me."

"Why would I tell you of all people anything?" He snarls, "Especially when there's nothing to tell."

"Because I'm the only one who seems to realize something is wrong," she hisses back, not sure if that was a good or a bad thing. Most likely bad. "I don't know why I did, why it's me, but I can't pretend that I don't see something going on with you."

"Will you just _shut your mouth_-"

"You were talking to Clove. I heard you say her name and talk with her as if she were there. I _heard _you," Katniss cuts him off. When she says Clove's name, she notices how Cato seems flinch as if the word has become a physical thing and she has struck him with it.

It makes her realize the truth.

There's only one reason why he would have that kind of reaction, and it's not because he's arrogant or thinks he doesn't need help. He doesn't want to talk about it because it's not something he welcomes or wants. It makes him nervous, and Cato is someone who is never afraid.

"You don't know what's going on, do you?" She asks him, the impassioned fire dropping from her voice as she considers the boy next to her. "You don't know either."

"I__—__" Cato shifts uneasily, wearing the same look Prim used to get when Katniss would call her out on something she didn't want to hear. He searches for the right words, having difficulty. "It's not__—__"

"You don't know why you snapped. And it makes you uneasy, doesn't it? Clove__—__"

"Stop saying her name," He orders. Unbeknownst to Katniss, Cato restrains himself from looking around for the shade, as if saying her name would somehow summon her. Maybe for him she already has been.

Katniss bites her lip, unsure of how to proceed. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. But you have to understand-it's like you were overtaken with something today, like there wasn't any of you _left _in you. And you kept saying her name."

She places her hands on her knees and squeezes the kneecaps in effort to secure her thoughts. Cato is staring at her, silenced momentarily. His arm is twitching more than it was minutes ago and he reaches his other arm around to steady it.

"You can't expect me to believe there's nothing going on with you after seeing that," Katniss continues, "No one else saw. It was only me. If you're worried I'm going to say anything, don't worry, I'm not. You did help my sister, so I owe you for that. But if you're going to be here, in this District, you know that whatever happened to you can't happen again. Snow would be on you in an instant."

She leans forward, keeping eye contact the entire time.

"What is going on with you?" Katniss asks, her tone soft and unbreakable.

He doesn't say anything at first, just looks at her while his mind goes through some kind of internal debate. They sit like that for a while, letting time pass as the moon continues to travel across the sky. It comes to a point where she doesn't think he's going to answer her at all, that maybe her words have stunned him into some kind of shock, or perhaps he was choosing silence as a way to deny it all.

But Katniss has a slew of patience at her disposal. It's a trait inherent with being a hunter, and right now she's hunting answers. So she waits and bids her time and is rewarded when he speaks.

Cato answers slowly at first, one of the rare times she's seen him hesitate. She doesn't know what finally prompts him to speak, or even better yet, entrust her with the truth. On some level it could be because she's backed him into a corner he can't talk his way out of, which is logical enough. But there's also the fact Cato is more freaked out by it than he's willing to admit, and if he has to talk about it, it's easier to talk about it with someone who suspects. It's only a bonus that he doesn't care about her opinion or crave her approval if he's going to discuss something like this.

(though if he were to look closer, that may not be entirely true__—__)

"I see Clove sometimes, okay?" Cato admits, the words coming out in a rush, "Is that what you wanted to hear?" The words are jumbled on top of each other, tripping over themselves as fall from his mouth. He looks at her as if expecting to have the confession held against him, or that maybe she won't believe him at all.

After all, how could anyone believe he's been talking to a very dead girl? Most of the time he doesn't himself-and then she appears again and everything goes to shit.

He expects her to tell him he's lost his mind.

But Katniss doesn't. Instead, she nods slowly and doesn't tell him he's crazy or delusional. She only asks, "Is it her ghost?"

"She's...she's not a ghost. She's more like a shade." The words leave him more exposed than he'd like.

"A shade?"

"Yeah."

"What does she want?"

"She wants me to kill people," he says frankly, "Especially you."

Besides swallowing visibly, Katniss doesn't betray any other emotion. "So she's pretty much the same person in death as she was in life."

"No. She's worse."

A version of Clove worse in death than the living version she's known? That didn't sound very pleasant at all.

"Is she here now?"

"...Yes. She appeared a few minutes ago."

That's not exactly an answer Katniss wants to hear, but she continues on anyway. "Where is she?"

"She's standing behind you."

Against her will, Katniss whips her head around. There is nothing but empty night air, and she didn't expect to see anything differently. But his answer, and the fact that _he _sees her even if she does not, raises the hair on her scalp and causes her skin to prickle with ill-ease.

"You don't see her, right?" Cato asks. Katniss knows the answer he expects her to say, but wonders momentarily if it's the one he truly wants to hear.

"I don't."

"Figured as much. I'm the only one that ever does."

"What's she doing?"

"She's pretending to stab you with her knives."

"Sounds like Clove..." She says, but she can't keep the uneasiness from her voice.

"She's telling me to kill you now, since she can't do it herself."

"Are you going to listen to her? Are you going to kill me?" Looks like she may need that knife hidden in her boot after all.

"No. Not tonight."

Or maybe not.

"I appreciate it. I'm not in the mood for a fight."

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"Why won't I kill you or why won't I listen to her?"

"Both?"

"Because since when do I take orders from Clove?" He pauses, and then shakes his head. "Well, that's not true, I guess. Last time I listened to her was earlier this afternoon. She told me to destroy that Peacekeeper, that he deserved it. And I did."

"Was that the first time she asked you to do something like that?"

"No. She's asked me many times."

"But this was the only time you actually listened?" Katniss questions carefully, trying not to push too hard.

"Yeah. And I lost control."

"I saw the man's body-"

"No," he interrupts her, "not like that. Like what you said before."

"Which was?"

"If you don't remember I'm not telling you."

Katniss takes a moment to think, mulling over her words from earlier in their conversation. One part in particular sticks out, glaring red against her memory. "You mean when I said there wasn't any of you in there?"

He slowly nods. "I couldn't stop it."

"...did you want to?"

"Not at first. That bastard deserved it. But then when I did..."

"You lost yourself in it."

"No," Cato corrects quickly, "I had me. Well, some of me."

"You couldn't control yourself?"

"I just said that, didn't I?" He snaps, but draws himself together again. "There was only Clove and her words, and then it was like I couldn't think about anything else but hurting that man. So I did and it felt _great _until I realized I couldn't stop." Cato's speech comes out in a rush again, as if eager to finally voice these things out loud. "I knew what I was doing, but everything was hazy and just _blurred_."

He brings his good hand up to his temple and rubs. "I was just so angry. _She _makes me so angry. And then the only important thing was beating the shit out of that Peacekeeper."

"So how did you stop?"

"I__—__" Cato goes to speak and then abruptly stops himself. Like hell he'll tell her it was because of her hand touching his arm and grounding his mind again. He looks anywhere but her eyes. "I just did, okay?"

"Okay," Katniss answers, knowing better than to push this particular question. "How long have you been seeing her?"

"Since after the Games ended. I'm not some kind of psychic, I don't see dead people on a normal basis like this."

"I didn't think you did," she says, "But do you have any idea of why you do now?"

Cato tenses again, disliking this question as well. "I might."

"So, then...?"

"Docs think my brain's messed up," He tells her as if he doesn't care about what he's saying at all. But his fingers dig deeper into the side of his skull from where he massages it, as if that alone could force away any damage. "I might have preferred it if she were a ghost and it weren't all in my head."

"Do you really think that's why?" Katniss asks, and he's glad she doesn't say anything that would imply she pities him. No way he'd put up with that sentiment.

"I don't know what else it could be."

"There may be__—__"

"No," He cuts her off, suddenly tired of the entire conversation. Cato's been left more exposed than he felt comfortable with, and all he wants to do is end it. He didn't want a heart-to-heart with the District 12 girl, it's exhausting enough dealing with his problems on his own. To lay them out for someone else to pick apart and examine any hopeful possibility that his brain isn't messed up is more than he is willing to give. He already knows he's messed up.

"And what about__—__"

"No," he repeats again. "This is my problem. You wanted to know what happened. There, I told you. Are you happy now?"

"No, I'm not," Katniss tells him honestly. He studies her face, looking for judgment, for disbelief, for anything that would lead him to believe he's not the only one who thinks he may be crazy. She doesn't wear any of that in her expression, and he wonders how that is even possible.

"Go to bed, 12. I don't want to talk to you anymore tonight."

Katniss opens her mouth to say something in response, but then stops herself. Rising from the step, she stretches her arms above her head as if reaching for the moon.

"Thank you for telling me," she says, staring straight ahead at the looming of the forest.

"Stop thanking me. This isn't something I want to be thanked over."

"I understand."

"Do you?"

"No. But I know how it is to carry a secret you're ashamed over," she tells him truthfully. "I know it's not easy."

"Well, don't you dare tell anyone about this, or next time I'll listen to Clove's advice and kill you if I find out you've told."

"When you put it like that..."

"I mean it. Don't say anything to anyone. It's my problem and I'll deal with it, just as I've always done with problems before."

Katniss hesitates slightly, unsure if keeping Cato's instability is really the best move she can make. She knows it's not. But now it not the time to anger him, not after a day like they've had. She's emotionally wrung-out. Whatever she thought he'd say when she pressured him for an answer wasn't what she got, and it leaves her feeling drained and oddly sympathetic. However, the sentiment doesn't stop her from being wary.

"I won't."

"You better not."

"I said I won't, didn't I?" She says. Exhaustion is weighing heavily on her and her brain is swimming to the brim with information and speculation. "Listen, Cato..."

"What?"

"My mother wanted me to ask you something," Katniss says. Her tone indicates she almost can't believe she's about to say this, since the concept is beyond her capability to understand at this point. "She wanted me to let you know you're invited over for dinner, if you'd like, on Friday night. It's her own way of saying thanks."

Her words are met with surprised silence. Cato just stares at her, brows drawn together and eyes squinted, as if looking for a trap within what she said.

It makes Katniss feel incredibly awkward, and she takes Cato's words to heart. It is time to go, go far away and escape the awkward as best she can. She inches towards the door, trying not to let the urge to rush away get the better of her. "I, um, I mean my mother doesn't need an answer right now. Just let us know, okay? I know it might weird, but my mother insisted upon on asking you, so..."

He still doesn't answer and Katniss gets closer to the door. "Alright then, I guess goodnight?" She finally turns her back. It is only when she is steps away from the door does he actually speak.

Clove's been laughing her ass off at the offer of dinner. Katniss may not see her since it's all in his own screwed up brain, but Cato can. Clove's as real as anything, and what she says is no less direct and taunting.

She's hunched over, wheezing and clutching her flickering sides. "Can you _believe _that girl?" she howls with mirth. "I mean, seriously damn. Wow."

Cato doesn't answer her, his eyes fixed on Katniss's retreat to the house and his mind still processing the fact he probably revealed more than he wanted about his specter problem. Looks like it wasn't only his body he couldn't control, but his own word vomit as well.

Clove continues her sharp laughter, the sound incredibly grating and harsh. "Oh c'mon, Cato, don't you find this _funny?_ Who in their right mind would go to dinner with a bunch of slumrats? Ridiculous."

Her jab strikes home, but not in the Clove expects. Her influence from earlier has already left him with enough rage to kill her several times over, which he would have at this point if it wasn't for the fact she was already dead.

It's the realization that a person in his right mind shouldn't be seeing _shades _rather than accepting a free meal which resonates with him the most.

"I'll go."

Katniss stops abruptly, as does Clove's laughter. The look they share on both their faces is actually pretty similar, and the situation in a different light might have been funny.

"What?"

"Tell your mother I'll be there on Friday. I hope she's cooking something good."

* * *

><p>::<p>

Haymitch accepts the apology the same way a cat enjoys getting wet. In another words, not well.

"I really think you're making a mistake," he huffs at her, unsatisfied even after Katniss has apologized for the third time in fifteen minutes. "Just what were you thinking?"

"I couldn't let the Peacekeepers take him. This happened because he was helping my sister, it wouldn't be right to throw him to them after that," she repeats, though she doubts the words would have any further impact than what they've had the first few times she's said them.

"He's completely unhinged. A boy like that won't change. He's dangerous. Why is that suddenly so difficult for you to understand?" Haymitch practically wails at her in exasperation. His legs twitch as he was ready to jump up and circle the couch they're sitting on at any moment.

"We've known he's dangerous way before whatever happened yesterday. I was in the Games with him, I know that better than anyone. But he helped Prim. I couldn't, Haymitch."

"Sure, he helped your sister. But after everything he's done you don't owe him anything. What he did is nothing compared to what he's _done."_

"I don't see it like that. I can't. That's not the kind of way I want to live my life thinking."

"Well, you'll be lucky if your kindness doesn't wind up getting you or someone else killed."

"He helped my sister. I helped him. I don't owe him anything anymore. If he__—__if something like that happens again, I'll take care of it myself," she says, meaning every word and hoping to reassure her mentor.

It pacifies Haymitch somewhat, but not by much. "That's taking a gamble that he won't kill you or someone else first."

"Haymitch," Katniss says, her voice serious and unwavering, "I won't let it get that far."

The older man sighs dramatically and runs his hands through his somewhat greasy hair. "I still really don't understand why you're doing this. When the Games ended two months ago you would have never done anything like this, Prim or not."

She shifts restlessly from her place on the sofa. Thoughts of the previous night's conversation runs through her mind__—__Cato's anger, his uneasiness at his situation, and his honesty. Telling Haymitch any of it would probably result in her mentor calling the Peacekeepers on the ex-District 2 boy before she even finished telling the tale.

Cato didn't know what was going on and neither did she. Was it his brain? Was it something else? Could it even be fixed-and most importantly, would it get worse?

How long could Cato hold out against Clove's bloodthirsty words?

It is a dangerous line she stood on, no doubt. Half of her wanted to spill what she'd learned and rid herself of the problem all together. The other half remembered that there was a difference between the crazed boy ripping into the Peacekeeper and the uncertain, snarky boy who sat on the porch with her, lit mostly by moonlight.

It still startled her that Cato was an actual person beneath his layers of violence and anger. The longer he spent in District 12 seemed to peel more away, and it was _that_ person, hidden beneath the layers, which she found increasingly difficult to forget existed.

It would be smart to just tell Haymitch. She would have before.

But she doesn't now.

"You just have to help me understand _why," _Haymitch insists, "You've played the Games. You know all about threats and Cato's a big one. You can tell me until your tongue shrivels up that you're doing it for your sister, and I know that isn't a lie. But a couple of months ago you would have leapt at a chance to get rid of him for good."

"Things are just different now, okay?" Katniss replies carefully, fully aware Haymitch is looking at her as if she has suddenly become an enigma he could no longer figure out. "The Games changes people, you know that."

"You've hated that boy, with all good reason to. He's violent and unpredictable, and yesterday's incident should stand as a sharp reminder of how he really is. Nothing has changed that about him, and yet, some of your harshness towards him is gone. Don't think I haven't noticed."

"You're still not going on about that night with the wolves, are you?" She says, deliberately ignoring everything else he's said since he doesn't know what she knows, what she's been made privy to. "Because if you are__—__"

"Stop that, you know that's not what I meant," Haymitch interrupts. His brows crease across his face in annoyance.

"You're making something into nothing again," she explains for the umpteenth time, "I just couldn't forget what he did for Prim. That's all. Don't make it more."

Haymitch sighs again, sensing the conversation is going nowhere anytime fast. He shifts over on the couch and closes the large gap between the two of them, and Katniss takes it as a sign that he's finally dropping the subject.

Her mentor places a steady hand on her shoulder and studies his tribute with the worry of a father. "Okay. Fine. We'll leave it at that. But please, Katniss, promise me something."

"What?"

"I want you to not let that understanding or misplaced gratitude or whatever the hell you felt towards that boy yesterday to be misconstrued from what it was. He helped Prim. Fine. But make sure that it doesn't become some sort of twisted concept of friendship between the two of you."

Katniss looks taken back. Haymitch removes his hand from her shoulder and awkwardly works it through his hair again. He opens his mouth to speak again when the noise of the front door swinging opening echoes from the hallway.

They both look towards the sound and then back at each other.

"Haymitch, did someone just...?"

"Yeah," He says gruffly, casting his eyes around for a weapon. "Quick. Go into the kitchen and get a knife."

"A knife? Tsk tsk. Is that any way to greet an old friend?" Another voice interrupts the pair's planning, causing them to swing their attention to the far left of the room. Haymitch's fists flex open and closed as he takes his first look at the intruder.

"I wouldn't exactly call you a friend," Haymitch says slowly, "Wasn't my front door locked?"

Brutus leans lazily against the wall of the living room. "Oh, it was. But I picked it."

"How charming of you."

"It's a very useful skill, I assure you," Brutus says, wearing his shit-eating grin with unabashed pride. "Would you have let me in otherwise?"

"No," Haymitch replies bluntly.

"Exactly. So how else would we have this nice little chat?"

"What are you doing here?" Katniss asks. She has inched as discreetly as she can towards the kitchen, but Brutus's watchful eyes haven't missed any of her movements.

"Ah, Miss Everdeen. Always a pleasure."

"Answer her question, Brutus. What do you want?" Haymitch cuts in, disliking any of his rival's attention on his tribute.

"Can't a man come and say hello? Spend a nice visit with his fellow victors?"

"Not if that person is you."

"Cold! So cold, the lot of you," Brutus says. His expression is jovial from the verbal sparring, but Katniss and Haymitch wear faces far from it. "No wonder not many people think well of District 12 if this is how you treat your guests."

"Brutus..." Haymitch says, "Answer the question."

"Fine. You guys are no fun," the other man mock-frowns before shrugging his massive shoulders. "I'm looking for our favorite District 2 castoff. Where can I find him?"

"You mean Cato?" Katniss asks, voice chilly and unmasked with her dislike of the older victor. "What do you want with him?"

"Ah, yes. That'll be my boy. Where can I find him?"

"Just what do you want with him?" She repeats, despite Haymitch's not-so-subtle headshake to be quiet.

"Does it matter?" Brutus practically purrs, enjoying his power over the pair. "I highly doubt you would care about anything concerning him." He scratches his head, just underneath the line of his scalp, as if considering something. "Unless, that is, you do...which would be _very _interesting."

"Stop putting words in her mouth," Haymitch snaps, drawing Brutus's attention back over to him. "He lives in the house over that way. The one that would have been the Mellark residence had they taken it. You know exactly where it is because I showed it to you before. You don't need a reminder, so why come knocking on my door?"

"Oh Haymitch, so suspicious about everything. Can't expect me to remember everything, can you?"

Haymitch doesn't answer. Instead, he crosses his arm over his chest and his mouth folds into one thin line.

"You're no fun," Brutus complains. "Fine, I'll be on my way. I've got things to do, after all."

"Be sure to close the door on your way out," Haymitch says, eager for him to leave.

"I will, I will," Brutus says, waving away the words and heading toward the entrance. He throws a glance over his shoulder, grin firmly in place. "I'll be seeing you around, Katniss."

He laughs at the murderous expression Haymitch sends his way and doesn't bother to close the door.

* * *

><p>::<p>

She is in the middle of town square when it happens. She spots them instantly, moments before anyone else within town does. It's their clothing that gives them away. District 11 citizens always dressed differently than District 12. They're just as poor, but their farmers' clothes at least aren't covered in a consistent layer of coal dust.

Katniss tugs on her mother's elbow and nods in the direction of the strangers when Mrs. Everdeen sends her a questioning look. Mrs. Everdeen pales when she sees the cause of her daughter's distress. She hooks a careful arm around Katniss' own and pulls her daughter close to her.

"What are they doing here?"

"I don't know. I thought District 11 was under strict observation since their rebellion failed a couple of weeks ago. I doubt Snow wants anyone coming or going."

Mrs. Everdeen tightens her grip on Katniss's arm. "That's what makes me nervous."

The intruders number about a dozen, a mix of men and women and a single child. They carry the weight of exhaustion upon them, skin scratched and weathered from the sun. There are patches of dried blood on some, and not all of it is fresh.

"Stay close to me, Katniss," Mrs. Everdeen says softly beneath her breath.

Katniss nods a silent agreement as they watch a circle of Peacekeepers slowly form around the group of District 11 citizens and a ring of townspeople forming around that. The newcomers look wary of the Peacekeepers, and some grip wooden sticks and rocks as if that alone could protect them.

"What are you doing here?" One Peacekeeper bellows. "I have it on good authority that no one from District 11 is allowed outside of their home district at this time."

The leader of the worn group rights herself as best she could, straightening her shoulders against the accusatory words.

"We're not from District 11. They simply lent us clothes for our journey. We all come from many different Districts," she says. As the leader talks, she reveals an accent that only comes from living in one of the mid-tiered Districts, perhaps 7 or 8.

"Even so," the Peacekeeper persists, undaunted, "You lot shouldn't be here. Leave now before you face more serious consequences."

"No," the leader says, "We've come too far to go back."

"What are you here for?"

"To show our support by joining together with District 12."

"Support? Of what? You are mistaken if you think any of that troublesome business from District 11 is going on here."

"Don't think we haven't heard," the leader says, looking into the crowd for support, "about how one of your Peacekeepers attacked an innocent girl. We know she was related to a Victor we all admire."

"You're wrong. It was rebels like you that attacked that girl," the Peacekeeper snaps. "You're all trash. Now get out."

"No," another from the mangy group pipes up. "You've ordered us around for too long. We want to live here in District 12 now and show our support against repression, so we're not leaving!"

"Yeah! We know how Peacekeepers pick on the innocent. The younger Everdeen girl hasn't been your first target. Don't think we don't know!" The voices amongst the rebel group as well as the native District 12 citizens grow and grow. Their noise makes the Peacekeepers nervous, egging them on.

"Mom, how do they know about Prim?" Katniss says beneath her breath.

"It must have gotten out somehow. Oh, these poor people…they don't know what they're doing by starting something like this," Mrs. Everdeen answers, her skin a starkly pallor.

"No, they don't…"

The ring of Peacekeepers grows more agitated at the group's disobedience. They are ready to rid themselves of this situation as quickly as possible and with whatever methods.

"This is your last chance," The Peacekeeper orders, "Leave."

"If another victor from an enemy District can help the sister of his rival, we can join together with District 12 and make sure that there are no more victims of your bullying!" The leader looks directly into the crowd and Katniss swears her eyes fall upon her. "We're tired of Snow. We're staying here and we're not leaving!"

"You can throw us out now, but that won't stop us from coming back again and again!"

"Yeah, that's right!"

"We'll come back. We'll keep coming back until things change!" Their voices grow louder in their conviction. Mrs. Everdeen's grip on her daughter's arm tightens to something almost painful.

"Fine," the Peacekeeper says dismissively, "Who said that I was going to kick you out? That won't do for a group of vermin like you."

And then they descend upon the little band.

The group of newcomers don't realize as first what the Peacekeepers intend to do. Several of them stare with blank expressions and dropped mouths as a bullet is put cleanly through the head of the leader. The body doesn't even hit the ground before others start to fall around her.

The rebels try to fight back, but the Peacekeepers make quick work of them. The amount of time it takes to be over it pityingly short. Katniss doesn't realize she's straining to go and help until she feels her mother pulling her back.

"You can't do anything for them now," Mrs. Everdeen murmurs. "Honor their belief in you by staying alive."

Katniss stills her movements, but her gaze is locked on the rivets of dark blood that streak across the stone of the street.

President Snow's Panem does not tolerate disobedience, and she has unwittingly become the symbol for it.

* * *

><p>::<p>

**Two quick things to share with you all__—__**

**1) As of last week, I have officially graduated from college with my masters degree. This means more time to write and faster updates.**

**2)** _Convergence _**has broken ****over 100k words with this update and I haven't yet hit the halfway point of the story (which would be Chapter 21). I'm no longer sure if I'm writing a fanfic or a novel.  
><strong>

**My thanks always to those who have read, reviewed, and most of all enjoyed. **


	19. To --

"But a tiny part of me wonders if this was a compliment. That he meant I was appealing in some way. It's weird, how much he's noticed me. Like the attention he's paid to my hunting. And apparently, I have not been as oblivious to him as I imagined, either."

—_The Hunger Games, _pg. 93

**Convergence**

Chapter Nineteen

The important thing isn't how you can look at someone without truly seeing them.

It's what happens once you do.

* * *

><p>::<p>

It's worse on the days he doesn't have his pills on him.

The headaches slink up with slow deliberate movements, sneaky and sure and pretty much unstoppable. The pain sometimes makes him want to split his skull open and sink his fingers into his brain. He'd dig until he found the source of it and then he'd tear it out.

Those were the days he'd forget to take the medication.

He didn't forget much anymore.

Pill bottles line the space above his bed. Some stand properly up and others are flopped on their sides, missing their lids. Almost all are empty. The ex-District 2 boy ignores the empty bottles, promising himself he'll be able to throw them away soon, and reaches for the one placed at the very end. He pulls off the lid and sets it aside.

Cato dumps two pills into his waiting palm and grimaces when he looks at them. They glow green in contrast against his grimy skin, sterile and as inviting as a nest of tracker jackers. The soothing relief the pills bring will buzz inside his being long after he ingests them, the chemicals drifting up into his mind and dulling the pain that dwells there. If only they could dull out Clove and her words, he wouldn't mind taking them so much.

He's been taking more pills with each increasing day, slowly upping his intake as the effects fade faster. One pill doesn't do as much for him as it used to.

Cato hates the pills and hates his brain but it doesn't stop him from popping them. Faster and faster, more and more. They disappear from the bottle and then disappear into him.

The bottle he holds in his hand is almost empty. Cato rattles it around as he checks inside, scooping out the few pills that remain within the white container. He doesn't have many pills left and his bottle supply is just about up.

"Good shit, aren't they?"

Cato's fist tightens around the bottle, clenching it so the plastic edges at the top dig into his skin. He looks over in Brutus's direction, his face wiped of expression. "How did you get in here?"

"Is that all you people are concerned about?" Brutus complains, not bothering to explain the joke. "Is it that difficult to imagine that locks can be picked?" He points in the direction of the door. "It's not like you have a particularly complicated one."

"I don't care about what you think of the door. What do you want?"

"Oh thanks, you little shit. Next time see if I care when you ask a question and get pissy when I have no interest acknowledging what you said."

"Are you here just to listen to yourself talk?"

"I happen to have a nice voice."

"Dying cats sound better than you."

"Ha!" Brutus holds up his hands in mock-surrender. "How long did it take you to think that one up?"

"Screw you."

"I rather not. I'm afraid you're not my type."

Brutus looks gleeful as Cato glares at him, irritated at the nonsense conversation that Brutus always seems to love. The man is a combination of deadly skill and obnoxious vices, and he's never been afraid to let either show.

"You talk as if your face doesn't look like a donkey's ass."

"So full of compliments, aren't you?" The older man's smile widens. "Well, living here in this backwater District has to make it difficult to distinguish between truly good looking specimens and horror shows, especially when you're constantly surrounded by all the lookers here. After a while, the horror show starts looking pretty good _if you know what I mean_."

"As if the freaks you bang at the Capitol are real prizes."

"At least I'm getting laid," Brutus raises an eyebrow, a superior look lighting his face, "I doubt you've been getting many offers since the Games."

"You're losing your touch if you think that's supposed to bother me. I've got more important things to do than worry about getting a girl around here."

"It's a sad day when a man belittles the company of a good woman," his ex-mentor pulls the contours of his mouth into a frown, but it's clear he really isn't all that torn up about it. "But I did get a peek at that spitfire next door. That Katniss has a nice little body, doesn't she?"

The mention of Katniss's name throws Cato for a bit of a loop. "When did you see her?"

"Oh, it had to be when I broke into Haymitch's house a couple of days ago. Do you know his lock was at least a bit more difficult than yours to pick? Something you should keep in mind. Wouldn't want to be shown up by an old goat," Brutus spouts off, sentences said in rabid-fire succession. "But seriously, I didn't appreciate it before, but now? Firegirl has a banging body."

"You sound like an old pervert."

"Ah, that's probably because I am," the older man agrees easily, "I mean, she's no prize in comparison to some of the tail you could have gotten back home, but considering where you are now she's definitely rating on the scale."

"Her mentor would kill you if he hears you saying that shit about her," Cato says, refusing to comment further. "Now can you please just say whatever it is you're here to say and get out?"

If only it were that easy, but Brutus is like a dog with a bone. Once he's latched onto something, he doesn't let go so quickly. "Cato, you can't say you haven't thought about...?" Brutus makes a crude gesture with his hips. "Hmmm?"

"Stop doing that. I never wanted to see you move that way again," Cato snaps. "And while you're at it, stop with whatever it is you're going on about with 12. I don't care about listening to this crap. Just stop whatever crazy tangent you're on."

"Since when have you become such a prude?" his ex-mentor laments, pauses, and then smirks. "Unless you don't want to talk about her because you-"

"No," Cato cuts him off, sensing the direction the conversation was headed and wanting no part of it. "It's not like that."

"I don't know, if you ask me—"

"Nobody asked you. And you're wrong, so stop."

"Well, if that's the case..." Brutus trails off, licking his lips with a slimy tongue. "Perhaps I'll have a go at her while I'm here...gotta do something for entertainment."

Cato's eyes narrow. "If you really want Haymitch to kill you, then go for it. Leave her alone, she's got nothing to do with you."

"Ahhh, c'mon. I want to see just what Firegirl is willing to give—"

"Which would be nothing," Cato cuts him off again, his tone glacial. "She's not that kind of girl."

"Oooh so you _have _tried."

"Not at all. I've just—" He pauses here, as if searching for the right words.

"You've just what?" Brutus looks very pleased with himself.

"I don't know. Gotten to know her better, I guess. Enough to know she wouldn't give you the time of day. Can you stop looking at me like that? Whatever you're thinking, it's not right."

"Uh huh," Brutus steps forward and ruffles Cato's hair. The younger boy swats him away with a scowl. "You're so easy to tease, you know that? You get all puffed up and hissy."

"Shut up and go away," Cato says. "You're a pain in the ass."

"I take pride in that," Brutus says, stepping past Cato and moving over towards the center of the room. He observes the long line of empty pill bottles, his hands held behind his back as if he were general inspecting his troops. Whistling low, he says, "Damn. I guess you really became quite the fan of these babies, haven't you?"

"I take them because I have to and not because I want to," Cato replies. He dislikes Brutus's keen observation, noticing the switch between his annoying and now serious personality. Whenever Brutus decided to get serious about something the outcome could go either way.

"What are you some kind of addict now?"

"I wouldn't say that," the younger man says, defensive. "I need them to get through the day. You know that. You're the one who gave them to me."

"I was, wasn't I?"

"Yeah."

"How bad are the headaches now?"

"None of your business. Don't pretend you care when I know you don't."

"I never said I did. Just want to know."

"Why?" Cato asks, wary. "You're just fishing for information."

"I can't ask my favorite tribute about his well being?"

"I'm not your favorite. You hate me."

"Hate's a bit harsh, don't you think?"

"Not when it comes to you."

"Whatever you say," the bigger man shrugs his shoulders, the motion causing the muscles under his skin to jump. "I don't need you to admit it anyway. The pain must be pretty bad if you went through all of these, judging by the amount of bottles you have here."

"I deal with it."

"Yeah, deal by using a large amount of medication."

"It's the only thing that works."

"I think I can help."

"You?" Cato asks, surprise crossing his face before he sets his mask back in place."Forget that. Whatever it is isn't worth being in debt to you."

"Who says you'd be in debt to me?" Brutus clicks his tongue as if Cato were a small child, "So quick to assume." He reaches behind his back and pulls open the zipper of the bag swung across his shoulder. Rummaging around for a moment, he pulls out a larger container. He hands it over to Cato, who takes it.

"That's from the Capitol. Fresh medicine."

"Why would you go out of your way to bring these to me?" Cato asks, skepticism oozing within the tone of his voice. He opens the bottle, first looking inside before dumping some of the content out and into his hand. Larger pills than what he's been taking spill into his palm. The green is brighter and more potent, an almost sickly neon shade.

"What are these?"

"They're pills, similar to what you've been taking for your headaches. Only these are supposed to work better."

"Work better how?"

"I was told it's just a higher dosage of whatever it is you've been taking. You're only supposed to use these babies on your bad days, by the way."

"And it's safe to take them?"

"I don't know. Do I look like a doctor to you?" Brutus says, earning himself another scowl from Cato. "I'm joking. They're fine."

The younger boy tips the pills lying on his palm back into the bottle and caps the lid. He walks over to his bed and dumps the bottle onto the shelf, leaving it to join the others he has there. He then turns to face the other man, saying, "You still never said why you're here."

"Who, me?"

Cato just stares at him, exasperated.

"Teenagers these days, none of you know how to have some fun," Brutus heaves a heavy sigh, which his ex-tribute prompts ignores. "I'm here as an ambassador from the Capitol. There's business to go over with the mayor of District 12, and I'm just the man to do it."

"What kind of business?"

"Last time I checked you weren't the mayor of the District, so I don't have to tell you."

"Fine. Whatever. I don't care enough to argue with you."

"No, that's not what you're supposed to say," Brutus says, disappointed. "You're supposed to argue with me until I finally caved and told you."

"The tissue box is by the front door. You can take one to dry your tears on your way out."

"Ouch! Well, that was a better insult than whatever crap you came up with before," the older man says approvingly. "Well, if you're going to be no fun, I'll just tell you then. This is where you ask me to go on."

Cato looks completely uninterested, but he is willing to say whatever he has to if it meant his ex-mentor would get the hell out sooner rather than later. "Go on then."

"If you must know," Brutus pauses for dramatic effect, though it is lost upon his unwilling audience, "You heard about the riot that happened a few days ago that the Peacekeepers put down, right?" Brutus waits for Cato to nod and doesn't continue until he does. "Well, as you can imagine, President Snow wasn't too happy about that. So he made a decision to help promote the Capitol's authority."

"And what would that be?"

"Ah, I thought you'd never ask," Brutus grins. "The reason I'm here is to make an official announcement that pertains to you and your buddy Everdeen. You'll be interested to know that the Victory Tour is being moved up from its previous date."

"Please tell me you're joking," Cato says, instant dislike settling onto his face in the form of a frown. "The Victory Tour has never been moved up before."

"Afraid I'm not joking," Brutus remarks happily. "The Victory Tour will start in a few weeks, so you better start working on that smile. That frown you have on now just isn't going to work."

* * *

><p>::<p>

Travelers don't have many accommodation options when visiting District 12, which usually isn't much of an issue since there weren't ever many travelers. District 12 doesn't have the reputation for being a vacation hot zone, and as such can't even boast about one hotel. The only place to stay is a small Inn, located right in the main part of town.

Brutus goes out of his way to make his sneer known as he returns to the modest Inn. He doesn't bother to return the greeting of the front desk staff, striding towards the elevator and flipping off a fellow traveler as he closes the door in his face.

The elevator itself is a bit of a joke since the Inn only has two floors, but that doesn't stop Brutus from ironically taking it.

When he reaches the door of his room, it takes him several moments of fumbling to find his swipe key before he can enter. He mumbles curses to himself as he walks inside, damning everyone from the bellboy to the mayor in one breath.

Clicking on the light and illuminating the small room, the man's cursing grows louder as he spots a figure sitting perched on the edge of one of the chairs.

"What the hell, Haymitch?"

Haymitch looks unimpressed at Brutus's surprise, and if anything, a bit smug. "Welcome back. You've kept me waiting."

"Kept _you _waiting? I think you need to focus on the fact that this isn't your room."

"What? It's okay for you to do it to me but not for me to do it to you?" Haymitch was most definitely smug.

"Bastard. If you're going to gloat go do it elsewhere. I'm the only one whose allowed to gloat around here."

"Well that's unfortunate for you," Haymitch retorts. "You'll just have to deal with it."

"I can always leave the room and not come back."

"You'll come back. I'll be waiting here until you do."

"What makes you so sure I will?"

"Because of the transmission that was sent up to your room from the Capitol while you were out." Haymitch produces a folded and sealed slip of paper from the pocket of his jacket, waving it around as he talks. Brutus's eyes follow the motion and his hands twitch as if to grab it.

"Ah, hell, Haymitch," Brutus groans. He finally walks from the narrow walkway he's been standing in and takes a seat on the bed facing opposite to Haymitch. "You really are set on being an ass tonight. Fine. You win. What do you want?"

"I thought you'd never ask," the other man says smoothly. He lazily stretches his legs out across the floor as if he had all the time in the world. Brutus looks at the display and grits his teeth.

"So?"

"Tell me, Brutus, what District are you from?"

The bigger man looks at him as if he were stupid. "Losing your memory, old man?"

"Just answer the question."

"District 2. As you already know. Asshole."

"Exactly."

"Yeah. So?"

"And where are you _not _from?"

"Not from this shitty District."

Haymitch brushes the jab aside. "Besides that."

"I don't know. From all the other Districts?"

"Yeah, and?"

Brutus pauses as he considers the question. The muscles in his jaw flex as he comes up with the answer and spits it out. "The Capitol."

"Bravo," Haymitch acknowledges, leaning forward towards his rival. "So why in seven hells are you working with _Snow?"_

"I don't owe you an explanation, sunshine."

"I think you owe all your fellow victors the reason why you're teaming up with that sadistic man. It's like spitting in our faces."

"Don't group me in with the lot of you," Brutus waves away words with a flick of his fingers. "No way I'm putting up with half the crap you guys do."

"The reason we have to deal with 'half that crap' is because of your new boss."

"So? I don't give a damn."

"Not even when it affects your own tributes?" Haymitch asks tensely, "Not even Cato?"

Brutus takes a moment to answer, face blank as if considering something. An easy smile spreads across his face, oozing out from the edges of his mouth. "Nah. Not even him."

"You're a disgrace as both a mentor and a victor," Haymitch growls. Disgust is evident within his every gesture. "You were never a stand-up man to begin with but you've sunk to an all new low joining with Snow."

"Is that supposed to bother me?"

Haymitch takes a deep breath, controlling his escalating temper. "You really should be honest with yourself and reconsider what side you're really on, Brutus."

"Is that so?" Brutus asks. His words are acidic and they rain down mercilessly on the man across from him. "All this talk of honesty—ha! I do believe that it's _you, _Haymitch, who should consider what side you're on."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Oh, but I think you do," Brutus practically purrs. "You truly do."

The muscular District 2 victor uncaringly pulls a coin out from his pocket. He examines it as if it was the most important thing in the world, and then begins to flip it up and down into the air, catching it each time it falls. He's a man with many secrets, and there's one he's more than willing to share. Haymitch studies him with a guarded expression, shields up and ready.

"You see, Haymitch, I think it it's really _you_ who has to be more honest with yourself...or at the very least, with your own t-r-i-b-u-t-e-s?" He draws the sound of the word out, his tone grating and superior.

"What are you—"

"Oh don't pretend like you don't know. You know exactly what I'm talking about."

"No, I don't," the other man protests, poker-faced.

Brutus flips the coin up higher than the previous times, openly staring as it holds suspended momentarily in the air before catching it soundly in his palm. "Trust me. You do. _The Mockingjay repeats and repeats until one day it flies._"

Haymitch's eyes widen as he understands what Brutus is getting at. His skin goes stark white and the space between his brows is raised, displaying his clear shock. "There's no way...how do you know about _that?"_

"I'm just that good, that's why," Brutus snarks, enjoying the feeling of power over his rival. "And if you don't want me blowing you and your little buddies sky high, you'll watch how you treat me in the future."

But even as Brutus gloats, Haymitch continues to connect his train of thoughts. Something even larger than the shock of Brutus's words strikes him, causing him to look at Brutus as if he's even quite seen him before.

"No," Haymitch says slowly, intercepting the celebratory look on the other man's face. "No, that's not quite right." Brutus stills immediately, a guarded look boarding up his face.

"There's only one way you'd know that," Haymitch says, "And one way alone. Brutus...you—"

Brutus lunges forward before Haymitch can finish the sentence. He easily takes advantage of the startled man, pinning him against the chair and lodging the span of his arm against the center of Haymitch's throat.

"I advise you not to continue that sentence," Brutus says, his words a warning. "And don't even _attempt _to say something like that again, or I will hunt you down to not only slit your own throat but the throats of your tributes as well. You're wrong with whatever it is you're thinking, you hear me?"

When Haymitch doesn't indicate an answer either way, Brutus increases the pressure against the other man's throat, watching as his eyes began to tear up from the pain. "I said, _do you hear me?_"

The older man, desperate for air, nods his head weakly against Brutus's choke hold. His eyes, however, hold the same look of surprise they've had for the last few minutes, and it pisses his rival off to an extreme.

"Good," Brutus says, finally releasing the pressure against the other man's neck. He watches with blank eyes as Haymitch hacks his lungs out and gasps for breath. "I'm glad. Now get the fuck out."

* * *

><p>::<p>

After Haymitch leaves, stumbling on his way out, Brutus grabs the Capitol's transmission from where it has fallen onto the floor. He opens it up only to discover it is nothing more than a cleverly disguised slip of blank piece of paper, barring the two words written in the center: _fooled you._

* * *

><p>::<p>

"Do you think I should have gone with the pasta after all?" Mrs. Everdeen fusses at her daughter, who looks uninterested. "What if he doesn't like chicken?"

"Mom, it's fine," Katniss says calmly. "Everybody likes chicken."

"Not vegetarians," Prim pips up, earning herself a warning look from her sister as their mother considers this.

"Do you think he's a vegetarian?"

Katniss resists the urge to roll her eyes. "I doubt it."

"I should have made two different types of meals. Why didn't I think of that earlier?"

"Well, you did almost burn half the chicken while you were trying to get the potatoes ready," Prim adds helpfully. "That took up a lot of your time."

"I forgot about that," their mother laments, "Do you think it'll taste okay? I definitely should have cooked two options."

"Both of you need to relax," Katniss says as delicately as she can. "I'm sure it'll be delicious, I'm sure one meal is fine, and I'm sure he'll eat it. It's not like he's had anyone cook for him in a while anyway, so I doubt he'll complain."

Her family stops to consider her words. "That's right," Mrs. Everdeen says after a moment, "I bet that boy hasn't. That alone is why this should have been perfect."

"Mom," Katniss insists, trying to be the voice of reason, "It's just Cato."

"Don't let him hear you say that," Prim tells her sister wisely, "He'll probably be insulted."

"With the size of his ego, I wouldn't be surprised," Katniss replies, a half-smile forming on her lips as she envisions his indigent reaction. He'd probably huff and puff about his pride while she tried—and failed—not to laugh at him.

"You would know best," Mrs. Everdeen finally accepts. She unties the apron from her waist, her fingers momentarily fumbling with the knot. Easing the apron off her body, she places it on the back of a kitchen chair and then runs her fingers through her hair. "I'm going to fix myself up. Prim, can you finish setting the table?" Their mother retreats to her bedroom and leaves the two sisters momentarily alone.

Prim pulls a chair over to the cupboard and proceeds to stand on it in order to reach the very top. With careful hands, the younger girl pulls the china white plates down from the cupboard and cradles them in her arms. When she has the right amount, she slowly steps down off the chair and makes her way over to the dining room. Katniss, having not much else to do, follows in the footsteps of her sister.

"Are you excited about tonight?" Prim asks as she sets a plate down, "I think it's going to be a lot of fun."

"I hope so."

"How are you not looking forward to finally having some company around here besides Haymitch?" Prim questions, scrunching up her nose. "Haymitch always eats all the garlic bread before I can get any."

"It's just still weird, you know? Sitting down for dinner with him. In my house. With my family."

"But I thought you liked him now," her younger sister says, "Aren't you friends?"

The word makes her sputter. "Friends? Prim, I don't know. It's Cato."

"I know who it is," Prim says smugly, "You keep reminding me."

Prim is placing the last white plate on the table when the doorbell rings. The sound ripples throughout the house and brings Katniss to a halt. She stares down the hallway and at the door, feeling as if on the brink of something bigger and larger than herself. The feeling bubbles up and drips away as quickly as it arrived, and Katniss has difficulty putting her finger on exactly what it was.

"Are you going to get that?" her younger sister asks, fumbling with the utensils. She almost drops the set of spoons on the floor, causing Katniss mutter beneath her breath as she heads towards the front of the house.

She hesitates for only a moment, taking one deep breath and staring at the door knob. It's difficult not to picture the person who stood on the other side, separated only by a few inches of wood and a lifetime of differences.

Katniss opens the door. Cato stands across the divide, looking questionably uncomfortable but nevertheless resolved. It's strange to see him dressed in a button-up shirt and slacks. The only time she's ever seen him outside his typical t-shirt and pants combination is when he stood next to Caesar on live television, flaunting his desire for her death. Now he stands on her doorstep, his good hand shoved in his pocket, and waits to be invited in for dinner.

"Hey," she says softly.

"Hey," he says back.

They stand quiet for a moment, evaluating the other's presence and coming to their own conclusions about one another. The silence prickles across her skin and down into the bones.

"What's that?" Katniss asks, wanting to break the empty silence that holds them hostage. Cato looks almost gratefully down at the bag he holds in his hand, and then grimaces when he realizes what she asked.

"You mean this?" Cato raises the bag up a few inches, as if checking to see if that is what she meant. "It's—"

"Yeah…?" she questions again, shifting from one foot to another.

"Wine," he answers, gesturing toward the bag. Now that he's said it, she can make out the outline of a bottle within the wrappings. "It's a gift for your mother."

Taken back that he even thought to bring anything at all, she reiterates his words, "You brought a gift?"

Cato wears an expression as if he's just swallowed a quart of nails. "Yeah, well, if you don't want it you can always just dump it down the drain or something."

"No! No, that's not what I—" she cuts herself off, gives a little shake, and looks him in the eye. "Let's start over again. Hi. Welcome. Thank you for thinking to bring us a gift, my mother will really appreciate it. But..." she hesitates, her formal guise slipping away. "How did you find someone who was willing to sell you alcohol?"

"You'll be surprised what people are willing to overlook when it comes to a victor," Cato says, a hint of a smirk teasing at the edges of his mouth. "A _lot _of things. Age is nothing."

"Do I even want to know?"

"Probably not," he answers, bringing an end to their conversation. They feel the awkward silence creep up upon them again, pulling at their heels.

"So," Cato says. He clears his throat.

"So," she repeats, flexing her fingers around the doorknob she's never quite let go of. It connects that she's just standing there and hasn't invited him inside yet, so she does so quickly. "Would you like to come in?"

"I was wondering how long you were going to leave me standing here." He keeps his tone light.

"Oh shut up," she says, opening the door up further and gesturing inside.

"Is that how you always invite guests in?" He says, appreciating the glower he receives in response. Cato takes the short step over the threshold, into the house, and towards Katniss.

* * *

><p>::<p>

She can feel his eyes trained on the back of her neck as he trails behind her down the hallway. It is still a knee-jerk reaction for her to distrust having him at her back, one she may never shake no matter how their relationship continued to change. Cato, for his part, keeps his mouth shut and doesn't bother to fill the quiet with empty chatter.

They enter the dining room, fully set with its gleaming china and folded napkins. Her mother has snuck fresh-cut flowers into a vase and placed it at the center of the table, a mix of different wildflowers with a cluster of sunflowers in the middle. She can hear her family bustling around the kitchen, clanging pots and pans and barking orders at each other.

They must have heard them enter the room, since Prim pops her head out from the doorway and beams when she sees the boy standing slightly to the side of her sister. "Cato, you're here!"

She bounds from the kitchen, full of energy, and stops just before their guest. Smiling up at him, she says, "I'm glad you were able to make it."

Uncertain what to do with such an enthusiastic greeting, Cato gives her an apprehensive half-smile. "Of course I'm here. I said I would, didn't I?"

Mrs. Everdeen makes an appearance, smoothing her hands down her dress. "Hi, welcome!" Her smile matches her daughter's.

"Thank you for having me," Cato says politely, using a tone Katniss hasn't heard since their time on Caesar's show. It's the voice of a trained Career, one who knows how to turn on the charm when needed. It doesn't feel forced, but more like a habit Cato falls back on when he doesn't know how to normally respond to something that's out of his depth.

It's not the first time Katniss wonders about the person whom Cato was underneath all the layers District 2 has carefully strung around him.

It won't be the last.

* * *

><p>::<p>

Despite Prim's lofty hopes of a fun evening, dinner is awkward from the start. Cato looks uncomfortable, despite his Career charms, which causes Prim to chatter constantly to fill the silence. Katniss tries to come up with something to say without much luck, and Mrs. Everdeen drops the bowl of mashed potatoes on the floor.

They all, somehow, finally sit down at the dinner table to eat. Prim is shushed from talking as a plate of candied honey carrots is set down in front of her, and she has to be told twice to pass it down. The silence that follows is an anxious one, as all dinner table members make a mutual effort to both look at and look away from one another.

When Mrs. Everdeen reveals the main course—chicken breast seasoned with herbs on the bone—and sets it down on the table, Cato's expression goes completely blank. He accepts with a slight nod when Mrs. Everdeen offers him a piece and gives it an experimental poke with his fork when he thinks no one is looking. The chicken gets stuck on the end of the fork, which he blanches at. He then slowly lifts his bad arm, carefully grasping the knife with stiff fingers, and then uses it as a brace against the meat in order to dislodge the utensil. Cato completely ignores the meat therefore after, gloomily spearing the carrots instead.

Katniss can practically see thoughts of '_this was a bad idea' _churning through their guest's head, and she's almost inclined to agree. Whatever her mother was thinking with this crazy notion of dinner, it certainly didn't seem to be going the way she'd hoped.

"Would you like some gravy with your chicken?" Mrs. Everdeen asks politely, breaking the silence. She eyes the chicken still sitting on Cato's plate, virtually untouched.

"No thank you. I usually just add salt."

The quiet descends again. The only sound is the clinking of utensils against plates and the occasional slurp of a drink. It's almost more nerve-wracking than the Games.

Katniss watches Cato slowly spear the vegetables sitting on his plate, throwing the meat a longing look. He hasn't touched the piece of chicken since his first attempt at it, causing Katniss to momentarily speculate if her mother was right about her vegetarian fears.

'_He's definitely missing out,´ _she thinks, using her knife and fork to cut the meat away from the bone, '_Mom out did herself with the seasoning.' _She lifts the fork to her mouth before the realization of what she's _actually _doing crosses her mind.

Mrs. Everdeen has cooked roasted chicken breast with herbs, leaving the meat on the bone. It's a meal that needs both a knife and a fork in order to eat, something which requires the use of both hands.

Well now.

'_No wonder he looks so uncomfortable,' _she considers. _'No way he's going to ask one of us to cut the meat for him. But Mom's going to be upset if he doesn't eat, and he doesn't look too happy that he can't do it himself. This dinner is going downhill fast. What should I do?'_

She doesn't have many ideas on how to solve the situation without drawing attention to the problem. Her options limited, she goes with the first semi-plausible reason that comes to mind and hopes her family doesn't cause too much of a fuss.

"Mom," Katniss announces, rocking the quiet around the table. All three heads turn to look at her. "Did you remember to add rosemary to the chicken?"

Her mother looks at her, confused. "No, I didn't. Why?"

"Because it definitely adds to the taste. Could you add some now?"

Mrs. Everdeen looks down at her own half-eaten chicken. "Now?"

"Yes," Katniss says firmly, even though she knows she's probably behaving in all shades of bizarre. She stands and scoops up Cato's plate before he has a chance to protest, and then snatches Prim's out from under her. She carries both into the kitchen ignoring Prim's squawks of annoyance, her mother trailing behind her with the other plates.

"Katniss," Mrs. Everdeen hisses once they're alone. "Just what are you doing to my chicken?"

"He can't cut it well," Katniss says. Starting with Cato's plate, she uses a fresh fork and knife to slice the chicken away from the bone. "That's why he's not eating it."

Mrs. Everdeen blinks, comprehension dawning on her face. She picks up a knife herself and begins slicing up the remaining plates of chicken. "I can't believe I didn't think about that when it came to making dinner."

"Probably because he plays it off as not being important. Cato always acts as if what happened to his arm isn't as big a problem for him than what it actually is, so sometimes it's easy to forget he's not the same as he was from before the Games."

"When you say he's not the same as before, do you mean only in respect to his arm? Or in other ways too?" Her mother asks, her eyes on her task.

"Other ways too."

"I see."

"Yeah."

"Katniss?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm proud of you."

Her daughter looks hard at the plate of chicken in front of her and makes a ambiguous noise in the back of her throat. "We'll see where it gets me."

"Promise me one thing though?"

Katniss half-shrugs. "What?"

"That if he ever turns on us and this is all an act of his, I give you full permission to tell me I was wrong and then go kick his ass."

Katniss looks up at her mother, mouth dropping slightly open at Mrs. Everdeen's wording. "Mom!"

"Yes?" Mrs. Everdeen says, innocent.

"I can't believe you really just said that. You never curse."

"Only when I believe it's worth driving in a point. For what it's worth, I don't think I'm wrong about that boy. But it had to be said," Mrs. Everdeen says primly. "Now, are we really putting rosemary on these poor mutilated birds?"

* * *

><p>::<p>

Dinner goes much more smoothly after that. Cato eyes the now sliced chicken—as well as its generous seasoning of rosemary—and looks at Katniss suspiciously as she reseats herself across from him at the dinner table. She meets his questioning look with a casual look of her own before digging back into her plate of food, refusing to confirm the real reason she took the plate away.

Cato picks up his fork and carefully jabs it into a slice of chicken before popping it into his mouth and chewing. Mrs. Everdeen doesn't do a very good job pretending she isn't watching her guest to see if he likes the meal, causing both her daughters to roll their eyes not so subtly themselves.

"It's very good. The rosemary—" he slides a sideways look at Katniss, "—definitely adds something to the meal. Thank you for adding it."

Mrs. Everdeen beams brightly, and just like that the tension breaks.

"So what do you think of District 12 now that you've been living here for a little while?" Mrs. Everdeen asks their guest.

"It's much different than District 2. Sometimes that's a good thing and other times not so much."

"I bet it's tough to get used to living in a new District," Prim says, eyes wide. "I can't imagine not living in District 12."

"Yeah, I know what you mean. I used to feel the same way about my own District," he pauses, and then corrects himself. "My old District."

"Do you miss it?" Prim asks.

"Parts of it. I'm angry with the place now, yeah, but it was still home." Cato says, his expression closed. "I usually try not to think that much about it."

"So then what's your favorite part about living in District 12 now?" Mrs. Everdeen questions. Katniss looks over at Cato, waiting for his answer.

Their guest considers the question, taking a moment to pop another piece of chicken into his mouth. "At first I would have told you nothing," he says, and then hastily continues as he sees Prim's face fall, "But now I'll have to say the space."

Surprised into responding, Katniss says, "The space? In case you haven't noticed, District 12 is packed full of trees." Prim sniggers.

"Oh really?" Cato says sarcastically, "Wow. I had no idea."

"Maybe it's time you invested in a pair of glasses," she tells him, and is rewarded with a horrified look from Cato. It is well known through Panem that District 2 looked down upon any and all physical weaknesses. Glasses, as a rule, were a sign of physical weakness of the eye—in terms of having less than perfect vision, anyway—and District 2 members who wore them would face teasing from their neighbors.

He glares at her from across the table while Mrs. Everdeen and Prim look on, delighted. Katniss simply shrugs her shoulders and offers him a small grin.

"You think you're funny, don't you, 12?"

"I'll be here all day. You can probably even ask my mother to examine your eyes for you."

"Hysterical."

Katniss opens her mouth to retort, but is cut off by Prim. The younger girl has been listening to the exchange, apparently fascinated. Her curiosity gets the better of her, causing her to ask, "Why don't you call Katniss by her name?"

Cato looks over at Prim, puzzled.

"She calls you by your name," Prim says encouragingly, "so why don't you call her by hers?"

_'Oh,' _Katniss thinks. She quickly runs through her cache of memories and discovers Prim is right. She's never paid much mind to it, but it's true. He never has addressed her by name before. Intrigued as to what he will say, she remains quiet. But Cato doesn't say anything for a few precious moments either, and the silence begins to feel heavy, driving her to break it.

"Probably because his Career-sized ego can't remember it," Katniss says more easily than she actually feels. Cato gives her a dirty look as she continues, "First the eyes and now your memory. You're falling apart."

"Oh yeah? I can still beat you in a fight, _12,_" he exaggerates the number, clearly aware that it will irk her. He smirks at her, his mood lightened. "Want to take me on?" Cato freezes, suddenly remembering who else is also at the table. His Career charm returns, a mask slipping over his features and smoothing the playful tone of his voice into careful politeness. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Everdeen. I didn't mean to make it sound as if I'm threatening your daughter—"

"Don't worry about it," Mrs. Everdeen says, waving away his apologetic words, "I didn't take it that way at all." She smiles, bobbing her head in Katniss's direction. "It's just nice hearing my daughter joking around with someone. She's usually very serious."

"Now why doesn't that surprise me?"

"Funny," Katniss says, feeling suddenly awkward about their previous banter, "How we all weren't born into a rich district."

"You would have hated it anyway," Cato replies, reaching for his glass and taking a sip. "Too many people and not enough trees to climb," he tells her, a clear reference to her previous Game strategy.

"And tracker jackers to drop on people?" Prim asks, eager to join in the conversation. Cato clinks the ice around in his glass, lips quirked as he says, "Yeah, that too."

"Katniss got her love of the woods from her father," Mrs. Everdeen adds, "Growing up she would follow him everywhere, just like a little duck. She idolized him."

"I didn't know that," Cato says, looking over at Katniss. She meets his gaze, her own steady. "I'm assuming she learned how to use a bow from him too?"

"Oh yes. My husband was very good at archery. His own father had taught him back when he was a boy, and he taught Katniss as soon as she was able to hold a bow. They would practice for hours, though I always worried they were going to get caught one day by a Peacekeeper."

"But we didn't though," Katniss says, "We were careful."

"You were _lucky,_" Mrs. Everdeen corrects. "Though obviously now I am very grateful he took the risk to teach her. I don't know what would have happened to us if he hadn't, or what would have happened to her in the Games."

"Probably would have died from starvation long before I ever had a chance for the Games," she says bluntly.

"Katniss!" Prim mumbles rather loudly beneath her breath. She indiscreetly nudges her head in Cato's direction, as if to remind her sister they had a guest at the table.

"What?"

"The fact remains that Katniss is very good at archery," Mrs. Everdeen says in attempt to smooth over the conversation. "Perhaps even better than my husband ever was."

Katniss flushes under the praise. "I doubt that. Dad was the best."

"I don't know about that. You would definitely be a challenge for him now."

"No way."

"Got to give yourself some credit, 12. You're being way too humble right now," Cato weighs in. He rests his chin against the palm of his good hand, fingers cradled against his face. "Accept a little praise once in a while."

Katniss looks at him, surprised. "Are you giving me a compliment?"

"I grew up in District 2, I know good archery when I see it," Cato says easily, his expression masklike. "You're better than most people I've seen from there."

His words are casual yet strange to her ears, and she has difficultly looking him in the face for several long moments. Katniss has never done well with praise and to hear such words coming from Cato is unsettling.

Someone from District 2 would rather die than acknowledge a person from District 12 as an equal in anything, not to mention in something physical like archery. And for him to say she was _better_ than other District 2 citizens...well, that just didn't happen.

His praise leaves her oddly giddy and she can't control the smile that tugs at her lips. "Thank you," she tells him. What she doesn't say is _thank you for acknowledging me._

Cato stares at her smile, as if surprised to see it directed at him.

"I've known it for a while, how good you are," he tells her, and then seems to realize he's saying more than he wanted, prompting him to hastily steer the conversation to safer territory. "Couldn't tell you though. Didn't want to risk you getting a big ego."

Cato pulls a haughty expression in imitation of her, something which pulls a laugh out of Katniss. The mood shifts and the odd feeling fades away as she says, "I don't think anyone can ever match yours."

"See?" Cato says, "This is what I'm talking about. One compliment and it's all over." He shakes his head. "I should have known better."

"I'll never let you live it down now."

"I'm sure you won't."

They both grin at each other.

"Well now," Mrs. Everdeen says, her voice reminding them both they're not alone. "If everyone is done with dinner, I'll begin clearing the table."

"I'll do the dishes, Mom. You made dinner, it's only fair," Katniss says, standing up. Mrs. Everdeen is in the middle of thanking her daughter when Cato stands up too, piling his utensils onto his plate. She extends her hand, reaching for the plate, and tells him, "It's okay, I'll take that."

"What kind of guest would I be if I didn't offer to help as well?" He protests, reaching for his cup and placing it onto his plate.

"Oh no, that's okay. Don't worry about it," Mrs. Everdeen tells him, "It wouldn't be right."

"I'm going to have to insist," Cato says, piling some more dishes beneath his own plate. "It wouldn't be right if I just sat here after your family did all the work in putting together a delicious dinner."

"But..."

"I want to, really." He carefully picks up his pile of plates with one hand. "Now, which way to the sink?"

* * *

><p>::<p>

If anyone told Katniss she would one day be elbow-deep in bubbles with a District 2 Career standing next to her with a towel in hand, she would have never believed it. But no matter how many times she blinked, the scene didn't fade. Cato stood next to her, carefully taking one spoon at a time and wiping it dry. He occasionally asked her where each item would go, but caught on quickly to the family's organization methods and soon barely had to ask at all. He moved fluidly around the Everdeen kitchen, as if he had been coming over for dinner and helping out with the dishes for years instead of it being the first time.

They work together in quiet unity. Katniss scrubs the dishes and places them in the drain board and then Cato would take each one to dry and put it away. She didn't have much to say and neither did he, both just appreciating the silence and the simplicity of the task at hand.

Halfway through the load of dishes, Cato leans over and inspects what is left. Turning to her, he asks, "Hey, would you want to switch?"

"Sure," she replies curiously, "But why?"

"Never really washed dishes before," Cato tells her with a shrug, "Figured might as well try it now." He walks around her, nudging her gently from her spot at the sink and doesn't seem to notice her dumbfounded expression. It's only when she doesn't move out of the way does she finally get his attention. "What?"

"You're joking, right?"

"Did I say something funny?"

"It's just that...how is that even possible? What have you been doing the whole time you've been here?"

"Dunno. Been using paper plates, just tossing them out afterwards. We had hired help around the house to do this kind of stuff," Cato shrugs, nudging her with his shoulder. "Now will you get out of the way?"

"Just how rich are you?" she asks, finally moving to let him in by the sink.

"_Was _I," he corrects. "Got disowned by my District, remember? Don't have much at all anymore."

"Yeah, but still..."

"Both my parents are victors of the Games. Each got a crapload of money and respect for winning their own respective Game, and when they married, they merged their winnings into one big fortune. So they could afford the help."

"That must have been a lot of pressure on you."

"Eh?" He turns away from the sink to look at her. "Pressure for what?"

"To become a victor too."

"Oh," Cato says, his expression morphing into something shuttered and closed. "That."

"Sorry," Katniss apologizes, realizing she may be touching upon a subject they were both better off avoiding. "I didn't mean to bring that up."

"Don't worry about it. It is what it is. Now are you going to help me with these dishes or what?"

"Demanding, aren't you?" Katniss grumbles, but picks up the towel. "You need to give me something to dry."

"Whose demanding now?" He shoots back, flicking a bit of lingering foam from the sink at her. It misses Katniss and lands on the counter, but the action still earns him a scowl.

Cato goes to dip his hands into the sudsy water but remembers at the last moment he is wearing a long sleeved dress shirt. He stops to roll up his sleeves, struggling momentarily to ease the stiff cloth up his arms.

"That looks like fun," Katniss muses, not offering to help. She knew he wouldn't accept it anyway.

"Oh yeah, it's a blast," he says absentmindedly, getting the second sleeve up past his elbow. He quickly plunges his maimed limb into the water before she can get a good look at it. Cato then gestures down towards it, as if to try and hide the fact he doesn't want her to see it. "It was a pain in the ass just to get my arm into a long sleeved shirt."

"Missing your t-shirts?"

"More than I'll ever admit."

"Aren't District 2 citizens supposed to love their expensive clothes?"

"Stereotyping all of us now, are you?" Cato quips as he scrubs at a pot. He uses his bad arm as a brace as his good arm does the tougher work. "That's not very nice."

"You know what I mean," Katniss protests, reaching to dry off a plate Cato has placed moments ago in the drain board. "You're dressed pretty fancy for just a family dinner."

"Family dinner is always a formal affair," he says, "It doesn't matter whose family it is."

"Even a poor family from District 12?"

"Even then," Cato says seriously before smirking. "Besides, it looks like I'm not the only one dressed up here. Seeing you in the light without your braid is kind of weird." His gaze dances over her loose hair before settling on her face.

She gives him a sour look. "I'm pulling it back the moment my mother is out of sight after this dinner is over."

"You make your mother sound like a force to be reckoned with."

"She is."

"Your mother though...she's a good lady," he says unexpectedly, concentrating on washing the steam of a glass. He feels Katniss's stare upon him, which he doesn't acknowledge. "Your sister too. You've got a good family."

"I do," she replies simply.

"You're lucky to have them. I think..." he trails off for a moment, and then continues. "I think I can understand a bit better now."

"Understand what?" Katniss asks, towel held forgotten in her hands.

Cato looks at her thoughtfully, shaking his head slightly as if to banish a lingering notion. "Why you fought so hard to get back to them."

* * *

><p>::<p>

After the dishes are done and put away, Cato and Katniss return into the dining room only to be shooed into the living room by Mrs. Everdeen. In the process of preparing dessert, she wants everyone out of her "working space" and promptly shuts the door behind them.

Prim takes the opportunity to reappear. Bounding into the living room, she arrives with energy and a jar in hand. "Hi!"

"Hey, Prim. What do you got there?"

"It's not for you," Prim says, "It's for Cato."

"Is that another one of your herb mixtures?" He asks, reaching to pluck the jar out of her grasp. Prim swats away his hand and opens the lid herself. The stink of herbs wafts up from the open jar, causing all room inhabitants to wrinkle their noses from the odor.

"Is it supposed to smell like that?" Katniss questions, eyeing the jar with distrust.

"This one actually smells better than other ones she's given me," Cato contributes, but even he looks at the jar hesitantly. "Can't you ever make one that smells decent?"

"Not if you want one that works," Prim says loftily, replacing the lid. "Besides, Mom's been helping me with this one. You should get better results using it."

"Thanks kid," Cato tells the younger girl, this time successfully retrieving the jar from her grasp. "I'll put some on later."

"You should use it now," Prim insists, "the sooner the better since the ingredients don't last as long as the other ones did."

"If you say so."

Prim has already loosened the lid of the jar for her patient, making it easy for him to twist the top off without using much force. He eyes the contents dubiously again, as if it were a malison instead of a healing aid.

He slowly rolls up his sleeves again, stopping the fabric above elbow-length. Cato dabs his fingers into the jar and begins to apply the concoction. Both Everdeen girls watch as he spreads the smelly goo across his lamed arm and then struggle to get to areas that were difficult for him to reach near the top.

His movements, despite being clumsy, are better from when Katniss has seen them last. There is no denying that Cato has improved from the horrible place he started at after the Games, but he is still nowhere near the grace form he once possessed.

"Here," Prim says, extending her hand. "Let me get the areas you can't."

Cato looks poised to argue with her about doing it himself, but then seems to realize that being unable to apply as needed would only hurt him. He hands her the jar and she is about to scoop her fingers into the mixture when Mrs. Everdeen's voice interrupts from the kitchen.

"Prim! Are you there?"

"Yes, why?"

"Can you come here a moment? I need someone to help me with the dessert."

"One second!" Prim calls back before turning to face her sister. She reaches out, grabbing Katniss's hand, and deposits the jar without giving the older girl the chance to argue. "Can you help him with this? I have to go see what Mom wants."

"Me?"

"Yes, you," Prim says, amused. "Make sure you use it generously. I'll be back in a few minutes to check on your work!" she teases before exiting the room. Katniss is left staring at Cato, confused as to how she ended up with a jar and the task at hand.

"Do you want to sit down or something?" She asks, looking distractingly towards the kitchen door.

"Whatever works."

Cato sits himself down on the Everdeen couch and Katniss joins him only after a moment's hesitation. As her weight sinks onto the cushion of the couch, she finds herself closer to him than she has been in a while. She swallows thickly, her body oddly tense.

"What?" Cato asks after several long seconds. Katniss looks skyward, slightly exasperated. "I need your arm, stupid."

"Your bedside manner sucks."

"Good thing you're not dying then," she retorts, unsympathetic. "Now, your arm?"

The way Cato gingerly extends his arm speaks volumes about his current state of mind. Offering his imperfect arm up for another to inspect leaves him feeling exposed. He wants to curl it back against his body and protect his imperfections from the world. He might have done just that if only he could reach the odd spots on his arm himself.

Begrudgingly he offers her his arm. Katniss can't stop her eyes from lingering momentarily over the scars that stretch tight and unyielding, and from the way Cato stiffens, he notices as well.

"Do you mind?" He says lightly, as if her open stare bothers him much less than it actually does.

"I'm sorry," she says hastily, settling her eyes on the jar instead of his arm, "I didn't mean to. I just haven't seen your arm in a while. The last time I had my mind on other things..." She trails off, but he knows what she means. She didn't have a chance to look while they were washing dishes earlier, making the last time she had an up close view of his arm was when she had been trying to stop him from killing the Peacekeeper.

Katniss dabs two fingers into the jar and swipes some of the mixture onto her hand. The smell of it makes her grimace, but she's smelled worse down at the Seam. She doesn't hesitate as she reaches for Cato's arm and begins to smooth the balm onto the places he couldn't reach.

Her movements are uncertain at first, unsure how he will react to having someone else touch his crippled arm. Katniss's own fingers aren't soft, but instead callused and toughened from years of hard work and a difficult lifestyle. Cato tenses at the immediate contact, sitting rigid on the couch while her fingers dance up and down his skin.

He gradually relaxes when he realizes she isn't going to comment on the bumps and ridges that play over the flesh of his arm. He takes the opportunity to study her as she works without fear of her catching him. Katniss's hair, still yet to have been placed back in its standard braid, is falling loosely down her back and over her shoulder. There's an eyelash that's fallen on her cheek and her brows are furrowed in concentration. She sits slightly hunched, relaxed as she works.

Her hands are rough as they smooth the balm over his arm, feeling nothing at all like the ladies from District 2 he was used to. She isn't a soft girl, and never has been, but there's something uniquely feminine in the care she takes in applying the balm. His eyes notice the way her mouth is pursed and how her lips are actually the most delicate part of her face. Her skin is warm against his own and leaves a trail of lingering pressure from where she touches. Katniss, assumedly unaware of her companion's thoughts, takes the moment to lean forward slightly, causing some more of her hair to fall from behind her back. Cato's eyes inadvertently follow the falling hair as it drops, coming to a rest against her breasts.

Katniss has been many things to him—a slumsgirl, a rival, an enemy, someone who understands—and yet, she has never been a woman. But having her up close to his own body, her skin pressing against his own, Cato is very much aware of the fact.

And it's very unsettling.

"I think that's good," he says hastily, the comfort he took in her touch suddenly turning into something he couldn't trust. He pulls his arm away from her without much ceremony and tucks it back against his body.

"Can you at least pretend you're grateful for the help?" She tells him sourly, seemingly unaware of his previous chain of thoughts. Katniss takes the lid and twists it back on the jar. "Here."

She reaches for his good arm without warning and drops the jar into his palm. The contact of her hand sends his thoughts roaring back down its previous unsettling path, and he all but yanks his arm out from her grasp. Berating himself and eager to leave behind the bizarre thoughts, Cato stands abruptly up from the couch.

"I'm going to see if your family needs help getting the dessert ready," he says gruffly. "Thanks."

"Sure," she says hesitantly, "no problem."

He stands stationary for a long moment, unsure of what to do with himself. Katniss studies the pattern of the couch fabric and wipes her hands against the sides of her legs to rid them of the leftover balm. Realizing she isn't going to say anything further, nor did he have much left to say to her, Cato gives her a brief nod she doesn't see and then heads to help out in the kitchen.

If he stayed behind a moment longer, he might have seen the faint blush still staining her cheeks and the way she seemed to be having trouble looking him in the eyes.

If he stayed behind a moment longer, he might have realized she had noticed him in a different light too.

* * *

><p>::<p>

***PLEASE NOTE that the last scene is not meant to imply that either Cato or Katniss have romantic feelings/crushes or anything of the sort on each other at this point. It's in there as a way to show how the two of them have only previously viewed each under the lens of stereotypes/labels, even as they slowly inch towards semi-friendship. However, they're at a point in their relationship now that's causing them to realize there's an actual flesh and blood person beneath it all, something which neither have truly noticed before...i.e. Cato realizing Katniss isn't just his old rival, but an attractive female as well. **

**This chapter was actually a gigantic pain to write, not because the scenes were difficult but rather because I haven't been home much since graduation to write it. As my first official summer done with school, I planned several vacations to San Francisco, CA, Philadelphia, PA, and Cape Cod, MA and have spent June and July simultaneously packing and unpacking for all three trips. This chapter has been sitting 75% done on my computer since the start of June and I've only had the chance to finish it now. It's close to 11,000 words though, so I hope the length helps to make up for it.**

**Finally, THANK YOU so much for all the reviews. You guys are always so nice with your reviews, but they seemed to be extra kind for whatever reason with the last update. I honestly appreciate the time you took to read and review (and even just read!).**

**One final note: for any of my readers who are fans of the band Imagine Dragons, go see them on tour if you can! I went to their concert two nights ago and they were amazing. You won't regret it if you do!  
><strong>


	20. Understanding

"How have the other victors faced this alone?"

—_The Hunger Games, _pg. 362

**Convergence**

Chapter Twenty

New is fresh. New is different. New is change. New is letting go.

New is terrifying.

so is needing people

and admitting it

[to someone else]

[who isn't you].

* * *

><p>::<p>

Following the successful dinner, Mrs. Everdeen decides to invite their guest back to visit any time he wished. The invite causes an instant shift in his body language, changing it from relaxed to tense. Prim, following her mother's example, adds that she enjoyed having him around the house and hopes he'd come back soon. Her words, clearly sincere, have no effect on his perplexed expression. Katniss chooses not to say anything at all. Her family remains oblivious to Cato's change of mood, and instead takes Katniss' lack of protest as a sign of goodwill. They promptly extend the offer again to the ex-District 2 boy, reiterating the invite a second time within only a matter of minutes.

Cato, standing in the frame of the doorway, flicks his gaze over all three figures standing across from him. He looks taken back for several long moments, as if trying to determine if the offer was serious or not. When they don't laugh in his face and kick him off the porch, his expression switches from confused to guarded. Unsure with how to deal with such an offer, he does what comes naturally to him. Cato pulls his Career mask securely in place, dips his head in thanks for dinner, and then disappears into the night.

"He won't be back," Katniss mumbles softly to herself, reaching out to secure the lock on the door.

"What was that?"

"He won't be back," she repeats, this time louder for her sister to hear.

"But I thought he had a good time," Prim says, pouting. "Why wouldn't he then?"

"Pride."

"Over what?"

Katniss gives a satisfied nod to the locked door and herds her sister towards the kitchen to help their mother finish with the final clean up. "That he needs something from us."

Prim looks confused. "What could he possibly need from us that he's embarrassed about?"

"Simple," Katniss says, her expression glossed over as she keeps her thoughts hidden, "It's company."

"Wait. So you're saying that he's going to avoid coming over because he wants to come over?"

"Pretty much."

"That doesn't even make sense. Tonight went really well! Even you two got along," Prim protests, trying to understand her sister's reasoning. She gives Katniss a suspicious glance and then asks, "You didn't say anything to him, did you?"

The older girl gives her sister a dirty look in return. "Why do you always think it's me?"

"Because it usually is!"

"Thanks."

"So did you?"

"No!"

"I don't get it then. Why do you think he's not going to visit us again?"

Katniss heaves another sigh, taking a deep breath and then exhaling slowly through her mouth. The breath escapes into the air with a slight _hisss _of sound. "I told you. If he comes over again on his own free will, it'll be admitting to something he doesn't want to."

"Which is?"

"That we're better company than no company at all."

"I don't get it."

"Prim, he's probably lonely," she says flatly. "But his pride will keep him from doing anything about it."

"You always talk about his pride like that. Like it's something that controls him."

"Because it is," Katniss says, her expression blank and her eyes distant. She sees something her sister does not and cannot because Prim will never truly understand, no matter how much she tries. "It's about all he has left."

* * *

><p>::<p>

Much to Mrs. Everdeen and Prim's chagrin, Katniss's prediction proves to be right. A solid week surges on from the Everdeen dinner party and Cato does not make another appearance. Mrs. Everdeen warns Prim not to pressure him to visit, and then later advises her not to take his apparent indifference personally.

"I'm sure he has his reasons," Mrs. Everdeen tells her daughter.

Her words make little impact on Prim's mood, for she mopes around the house for the better part of the week. Katniss doesn't bring it up at all, and the other two Everdeen women figure it's probably because she doesn't care one way or the other. Katniss doesn't give evidence either way, and both decide it's better not to ask.

The atmosphere of the Everdeen household mostly mellows out after that. Each member follows their normal routines, going about their day and their business without much break in habit. Having made their peace with the ex-District 2 boy living only a house away, and the lack of a reappearance of the Peacekeeper who had harassed Prim, the Everdeens allowed themselves to relax to some degree from their usual high-state of alert.

It is calm until Katniss receives the letter from Peeta.

The letter isn't out of the ordinary at first. Ever since returning to the Capitol, Peeta has diligently posted letters back home almost every week. The Everdeen household has become used to the weekly sight of a crisp white envelope, bearing both the seal of the capital and Katniss's name, written in Peeta's cramped style.

His letters never revealed too much—mostly short, typically bland recounts of his week and small comments on people she'd met while she was at the Capitol. It's usually just dribble with only a hint of substance, the complete opposite of Peeta's personality. It's easy to judge from the content of the letters that Snow probably has someone checking the outgoing correspondence, which would explain as to why Peeta fills his letters with fluff instead. It's too risky to send anything that Snow could hold against them, but there's still purpose behind what he writes.

The letters may be filled with nonsense, but it's Peeta's way of letting them all know he's still alive.

When Peeta's weekly letter arrives, roughly two weeks after the Everdeens had a Career over for dinner, Katniss reaches for it eagerly. It's a small comfort, despite knowing how things were left between them the last they saw each other, that Peeta still cares enough to write. She carefully opens the envelope to avoid ripping the precious letter, and reads:

_Dear Katniss, _

_I hope all is well with you and your family. _

_My week was mostly filled with the usual Capitol society functions and parties. You remember how I told you about Finnick, right? He invited me out with some of his lady friends to a fundraiser for PWLOB (Panem's Women League of Beauty), which turned out to be as interesting as you can imagine. Even with his poor decision making when it comes to choosing events, he's been a friend to me since I've been here and I'm grateful for that. _

_He's been teaching me about the responsibilities of being a victor, and is a very good source of knowledge. He said that he's met you the last time you were at the Capitol, and he says it'll be nice to see you again whenever you get here. How come you didn't mention before that you knew him?_

_Did Prim ever end up getting that cookie recipe right? I remember you mentioning to me last week that she almost burned down the kitchen because she forgot to set the timer. Tell her I'd like to help her out, if she wants, whenever I'm back in District 12. _

_I think I'll be seeing you sooner than Prim since we'll be together soon on the tour. It's the first time it's ever been moved up_—_interesting, right? Not sure if Haymitch told you that. I didn't know either until Cinna told me, he actually said most people don't know about that little fact. So there's a good chance Haymitch didn't know either whenever he let you know about the tour date being changed. I'd offer to help you as well as Prim with baking, but it's too bad you're as hopeless in the kitchen as your sister seems to be (good thing you have me for all your pastry needs). _

_I can't wait to see you in a couple of weeks from now. It almost seems too good to believe. _

_Take care of yourself. _

_Peeta_

* * *

><p>::<p>

Prim knows something is wrong when her sister stands frozen in the middle the room, her fingers stiff against the paper. From where she stands, Prim can see Katniss's eyes reach the end of the letter a second time before shooting back up to the top to begin to read again. She always seems to pause in the same place, as if she can't believe what she's reading.

"Katniss?" Prim ventures softly. "Katniss, what's wrong? Is it Peeta?"

Her younger sister's voice causes Katniss to give a startled twitch, tearing her eyes away from the words and focusing on Prim. Prim's misgivings are confirmed the instant she sees the guarded look in Katniss's eyes. The older girl only gets that look when matters were grave and this sudden situation appears to be no different.

"No, he's fine," she hesitates, "Well, he seems fine."

"Then what is it?"

Katniss can't quite meet her sister's gaze. "It seems that the tour date has been changed."

"_What?" _

"Peeta said so in his letter. He seemed to think I already knew about."

"Did you?" Prim asks, looking betrayed.

"No, I swear. I don't even know why…"

"How soon?" Prim sniffles. Her eyes have welled with tears that she stubbornly fights to keep from falling. "You've only been home for a couple of months. You said you had at least another four months at home before you needed to leave!"

Katniss moves slowly towards her sister, her actions dulled by disbelief. She sluggishly wraps her arms around the blonde, holding her tight against her body. Prim's chin quivers against her shoulder, and the younger girl's fingers dig into Katniss's skin as she clings back.

"Soon, I think," Katniss says softly. Most of the words are muffled from where her mouth rests against Prim's hair. "Peeta mentioned only weeks." This news only causes her sister to cling tighter.

"I don't want you to go," Prim says after several long moments, as if saying the words can change what cannot be changed. "I want you to stay."

"I know," the older girl answers, "I want to stay too."

Both sisters know it's impossible. Everything will take place as Snow has decreed, and there is nothing in either girl's power can make a difference in alternating the outcome. Every time Katniss goes away, Prim knows there's a part of her sister that doesn't come back. She's just grateful that she gets any of her back at all—for however long that lasts.

It goes without saying that every time she leaves, it just might be the last.

* * *

><p>::<p>

"How could you keep something like that a secret from me? From my family?" Katniss hisses furiously Her body is taunt with tension and unhappiness, the majority of it directed at the man in front of her. She is a powder keg upon entering Haymitch's house, fuse lit and explosives firing.

"I was going to tell you. Don't be ridiculous."

"When? The day before? The day of?"

"At the end of next week," Haymitch snaps. "I wanted to give you as many days as possible for you to be happy with your family, okay?"

"Yes, because it was so much better for me to find out this way instead. Caught off guard with my little sister in the room, wanting to know why I suddenly look so upset _from a letter_ instead of being told in person by my mentor."

"I obviously didn't know that Peeta was going to say something." Haymitch pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. "Look, there's been a lot going on lately with Brutus being here and then trying to find the right way to tell you the news." He stares imploringly at her, as if willing the infuriated girl to understand. "Do you think I loved knowing that I had to tell you something like this?"

"That's not the point. I thought I had months with my family. It hasn't even been that long since the Games ended, and I haven't had that much time with them at all. Snow has _never _bumped up the date of the tour before, I didn't think he could."

"Well, apparently he can. And complaining about it to me isn't going to change anything."

"I didn't think it would," she shoots back, all fire, "How long have you known?"

"About the new date? Since Brutus came to town. He was the one who told me."

"So you've known for several _weeks _now?" Katniss says accusingly. Haymitch has the grace to finally show traces of guilt, flinching slightly away from her angry words. "And you never once thought to tell me."

"I made a mistake, okay? Trust me, I know it hurts. I don't want to go back either, I never do, and I'm not even the one with a family. I don't have a lot of friends that'll miss me. But it's different for you. You needed the time with them without another burden."

"You do have family," Katniss says, staring hard at her mentor. She may be angry with him—something that seems to happen lately between the two of them—but it doesn't take away from the role Haymitch has come to play in her life. "We're your family."

Haymitch looks a little taken back, but then bats away her words with a wave of his hand. He doesn't place much stock in sentiment during times such as these. These past few months have found him extending his emotional capacity to an uncomfortable level that he hasn't experienced since returning from his own Games. He refuses to extend it any further by allowing what she says to penetrate the barriers he's placed around his heart. It's far too dangerous. "That doesn't matter now. I've been more concerned with _why _he would even move it up in the first place."

"Any ideas?"

"I'm chalking it up to some sort of power display. Between multiple victors and then the riots that have been taking place in the other Districts, I'm willing to bet that our honorable President has been feeling a little uneasy about things."

"Makes sense," Katniss says bitterly. "And we're the ones who have to pay the price again."

"Isn't that how it always works? People without any power reduced to pawns for those who do have enough power to play the game."

"Explains the riots."

"Ah, it does. But if those riots end up amounting to anything will be interesting to see."

"Do you think that they will?"

Haymitch considers the question, mulling it over and responding with some hesitancy. "It's going to do something. It's already changing things. But it's not just the riots, it's what _you've _done that's sparked all this."

"So you've said."

"So I still think."

"I wouldn't have been able to win without Peeta," Katniss tells him. "I don't regret having the Games end with more than one victor."

Her mentor regards the girl in front of him, measuring his words. "I don't doubt that. But you didn't have to boost that number to three."

"Bringing that up again won't change the past. What's done is done," Katniss answers back evenly, her tone never betraying her thoughts.

"Ah, yes, that is very true," Haymitch says carefully, "But do you regret it? Do you regret him still?"

Katniss goes quiet for several long moments, giving the question the time it deserves to sink in. She considers Snow's anger and vendetta against them, Cato's own instability and shades of insanity, Prim's bruised cheek, and the riots and rumors spreading throughout the Districts, carried on the backs of rats over the thresholds.

She answers honestly. "I don't know."

"And that," Haymitch says bluntly, "is what worries me."

* * *

><p>::<p>

Katniss leaves Haymitch's house calmer than how she originally entered. Anger is funny like that—it can be a driving, powerful force when directed the right way, but once gone it leaves behind an empty cavity. Drained from the emotion that possessed her upon reading Peeta's letter, all she feels now is a relentless exhaustion that threatens to drag her down.

She doesn't want to go home. Home has Prim crying in her room (quietly, so not to bother her sister) and a mother who has yet to be told of her oldest daughter's impending departure. Anywhere else is better than home right now, and since she refuses to step foot into the woods, there is no other place to go but into town.

Katniss walks down the steps with her head bowed, biting her lip in the thoughtless way people do when stressed. She has just cleared the last step off the porch and is turning to face the path which leads to town when the sound of additional footsteps registers in her mind. Looking up, she comes face to face with her unruly neighbor, who is only several feet away.

Cato stands before her, wearing a lightweight jacket and carrying a canvas bag slung over his shoulder. Surprise touches his eyes briefly, causing his mouth to tighten into a straight line. It's obvious he wasn't expecting to see her.

"Hello," she says, the greeting springing past her lips before she can think better of it. In hindsight, it might have been easier to stick with the avoidance routine he's already put into place. But the greeting, already out there, prompts him to answer back with one of his own.

"Hey," he says, "You look like crap."

If she had bumped into him before using up her anger on Haymitch, her response might have been a bit different. But with her temper spent and fatigue seeping into her body, it doesn't seem as worth it for her to dwell on the way things left off between them.

"It hasn't exactly been a great day."

"And any day here is great?"

"Better here than in the Capitol."

"You've got me there," Cato says, "Though I wouldn't mind getting close enough to kill Sn—" He cuts himself off, rethinking the sentence. "You know what? Never mind. I don't need a horde of Peacekeepers descending on me."

Katniss nods distractedly. "Agreed." She turns her head to face the road leading to town, the urge to get away from Haymitch and her house growing the longer she stands still. "Anyway, I've got to go."

Cato follows her gaze and makes the logical leap. "Heading into town?"

"Yeah." She gives him a half-hearted wave of her fingers as she begins to walk down the path. "See you when I see you," Katniss says, and bids him goodbye. She isn't expecting him to fall in step with her along the path.

"What are you doing?" she asks him, startled to see him walking besides her. "Today really isn't a great day to—"

"Turns out I'm headed into town too."

This news almost stops her in her tracks. "Right now?"

"Right now," he confirms, much to her displeasure. So much for solitude. She increases the pace to a brisk walk, and Cato keeps up with her easily.

"I'm not sure if you really mean that or if you're just doing this to annoy me…"

"Sorry to disappoint, but my life doesn't revolve around you," Cato tells her, face lit with a bit of his usual swagger. "If anything, you're barging in on my usual trip."

"Usual trip?" Katniss asks. She furrows her brow in confusion, trying to make sense of his statement. "So you go this time every day?"

"Yeah, usually," he confirms with a nod. "Everyday around noon for the last couple of weeks."

"I've never noticed before."

"Don't worry, I'm not offended," Cato tells her, smirking as she glares at him. "I wouldn't expect you to pay attention to what I do. Not like I would I want you to."

"You always have a way to inspire confidence in people, you know that?"

He gives her a snarky grin. "Oh, I do."

The Victor's Village houses begin to fade behind them as they walk along the path towards town. It is a beautiful day. The air is starting to crisp into traces of Autumn temperature, and the trees have a blush of golden color against the fading green. It's still too warm for the jacket Cato wears, but Katniss guesses correctly it's to cover his scarred arm from view.

"What do you do in town every day?" Katniss asks, mildly curious. It's true she hasn't seen Cato much since the night he came over for dinner. He has made himself scarce, a difficult feat for someone who resides in a house not far from her own.

"I really just go through it," he tells her, "I usually don't spend that much time there. Too many people." He doesn't say anything further, but she understands what goes unsaid. Too many people there who turn their eyes on him. His status as an original member of District 2 is already damning enough, but combined with his enthusiastic performance during the Games makes him a generally unwelcomed addition to District 12's community. Most watch the Career with unease, their eyes trailing over his scars and finding echoes of his infamous blood thirst in every move he makes.

"There's a small clearing, over by the river, past the town," Cato continues, "away from the Peacekeepers and the guards. It's a great spot to train."

"Is that all you ever do?"

Cato looks over at her, mildly annoyed. Katniss shrugs, conveying she meant no harm by the dig. "It's just that's all you seem to spend your time doing. That's what I meant."

"What else am I supposed to do here?"

It is a valid question, and she doesn't quite have the answer to it. "There has to be something else that interests you besides working out with that sword."

"I've spent almost all my time practicing swordplay and preparing for the Games. It's pretty much been my entire life. There was never time for anything else, since nothing else was as important. Is that so weird to you?"

"Yeah, for me at least," she tells him, "And probably for most of District 12 here. We don't have time to waste like that, not when someone has to figure out how to put food on the table."

"So what do _you _do now?"

"What?" Katniss asks, puzzled.

"You asked me why I still train when the Games are already over. I told you because that's all I've done for eighteen years. What do _you _do now that you've won and there's food on your table every night? What does the famous Girl on Fire do in her spare time now that she doesn't have that worry anymore?"

It's another question she doesn't have an answer to give him, mostly because she's yet to find an answer to give herself. She takes too long to respond, which prompts him to speak again.

"You probably shouldn't be giving out advice on something you need help with yourself, 12," Cato says, slightly superior. "It'll just make you look stupid."

"What would be stupid is how you'd look when the Peacekeepers catch you swinging around that sword and confiscate it for violating the weapons policy here," Katniss retorts, "What would you do then? Stand by the river and swing a stick, pretending it's a sword?"

"I'd just find a way to get it back."

"And end up dead for it."

"Better dead than left with nothing."

"Does everyone from District 2 have such an extreme way of thinking or is that just you?"

Cato's lip quirks up at the side, suppressing a smile he doesn't wish for her to see. "Maybe I'd spend my time bothering you then, since you seem so fond of keeping me alive."

"That is not what I meant at all," Katniss says, displeased with the turnaround. "You just like twisting things to be a pain in the ass. Isn't there someone else you can get your kicks in teasing besides me?"

"Oh yes," Cato says sarcastically. He fans his good arm out from his side, gesturing towards all the empty space around him. "Look at these people. So many options to choose from." He drops his arm. "I expected more from you than that."

"That's your own fault. You can't exactly blame everyone in 12 for acting the way to do around you. You haven't exactly made yourself popular here, before or after the Games."

Katniss doesn't have to tell him about what he already knows. The citizens of District 12 treat Cato as both a shark and a pariah, too dangerous to befriend and too much of an oddity in their world to ever accept him after all he's done. Most District 12 citizens have watched too many Careers tear apart their children and friends without having the chance to do anything about it. In Cato, they have found their scapegoat to place all the wrongs they've suffered, whether or not he has anything to do with them.

"Not worth making an effort with people from the slums," Cato tells her airily, as if he couldn't care any less about the fact he'll have to live among them for the rest of his life. "Not worth my time."

Beneath it all, even if he wanted that to change, District 12 is made up a people whom he knows will never, ever accept him as he is.

And he's not the type to try.

"So that pretty much leaves you by default, 12," he continues, ignoring the elephant they both will not address. "You and bread boy, whenever he comes back. Your mentor isn't much fun."

"Haymitch isn't the type who can take his own medicine."

The duo are approaching the end of the path. From the shelter of trees around them, the hustle and bustle of the main town comes into view. People are going about their day, ducking their heads down and getting what needs to get done finished in the same monotonous drag. The path opens up into the nicer part of town, the slums located far on the other end, out of sight.

Cato and Katniss walk side by side, taking the final steps off the dirt road and onto the cobbled street of the town.

"Headed anywhere special?"

"I'm not really sure. I just came here to get away from home."

Her words cause Cato to slow his steps, bringing him to halt. His sudden stop automatically brings her to a stop as well, and she looks at him in confusion. "What?"

"Wasn't expecting to hear that from you. Since when do you have problems at home?"

Katniss shifts uncomfortably under his stare. Walking into town with Cato served as an excellent distraction from the real problem that has brought her here, and the feelings she's been suppressing quickly rush back. Her stance stiffens, and Cato, sensing a change, narrows his eyes in attempt to figure her out.

"It's about the tour."

"Ah. Little sis not a fan?"

Katniss realizes instantly that he seems to know exactly what she's talking about. "Tell me the truth. Do you know about the change of dates for the tour?"

"Well, yeah. And you didn't?"

The girl shakes her head in response. "No, I had no idea. Haymitch thought it would be better not to tell me for as long as he could. He just didn't count on me finding out before he decided it was time to share."

Cato whistles. "Damn. Explains why you're pissy today."

"Who told you? Brutus?" Katniss asks, ignoring his jab. "How long did you know?"

"Brutus did tell me. It was about a couple of weeks ago, whenever he came up here. Figured everyone who had to know knew already by now," Cato tells her. "Guess not."

"Don't you care that Snow's moved the Victor's Tour up?"

"Snow's just being an ass. No surprise there."

"So you don't care that the date's been changed?"

"Whether I go now or later doesn't matter to me. I mean, look where I am. Mini-trip away from District 12 in a few weeks or a few months doesn't change much. It's all the same in the end for me."

"It does change things if we end up not coming back."

Cato's gaze sharpens. "You know something I don't?"

"No, but that doesn't mean there's nothing going on. Why else would he move it up?"

"A warning to us, maybe? I didn't think too heavily on it."

"Haymitch told me to be careful."

"Haymitch is a paranoid middle-aged drunk," Cato says, insulting the older man with ease. Katniss opens her mouth undoubtedly to defend him, but Cato continues. "But this time I can understand where he's coming from. We can't trust anyone from there."

"We?" Katniss asks him curiously, "I didn't think you'd ever want to group us together."

"The fact I just said that will probably keep me up from nightmares for days to come," Cato tells her, "But given the current situation that my option for allies are slim these days, you know, I'll say it just this once. There aren't that many Careers to choose from anymore given my current standing with my old District."

"If only your old allies can see you now."

"Don't get any ideas. No way would this be a permanent thing. But when choosing between you and Snow, I'd choose to take my chances with you."

"When you put it like that..."

"Makes it hard to say no, eh?" Cato says, his voice light with humor. "In fact, I think—"

Cato never gets to finish his sentence. A person walking by the pair deliberately knocks into the muscular boy and causes him to stumble backwards from the unexpected impact. The stranger extravagantly brushes off his coat, as if the contact with Cato has soiled the fabric.

"Watch where you're going," the stranger says, not one of the words coming out of his mouth pleasant. His expression is cold.

"You're the one who bumped into me, jackass," Cato retorts, his voice coming out low with anger. "You should watch where you're going."

"Or what? You'd kill me in my sleep?" The stranger taunts. "Just try it. Things work differently here in 12 than they do in 2, boy. You'd not like what you'd find out."

While the two exchange heated words, Katniss takes a moment to take in their surroundings. Since the two have entered the town, the nearby townspeople have given the pair a wide berth. Some avert their gazes as they pass by, others don't even bother to hide their dirty looks. There's even some who look upon her companion as if he would attack them should their eyes dare to meet.

The town is slowly turning into a hostile environment, and Katniss doesn't have to look far to see as to why Cato spends little time in the area.

"He'll be more careful," Katniss breaks into the conversation, her words earning her an annoyed look from the boy next to her. Eager to get away from the muttering citizens around them, she bows her head in quick apology. "We're sorry for any trouble."

Cato begins to retort that he's not sorry at all, but Katniss doesn't give him much of a chance. She reaches out and encircles his wrist with her hand. Her fingers wrap around the fabric of his coat, and she can feel the warm of his skin radiating beneath the cloth. She tugs him forward, drawing him away from the area they stood. "Come on."

She leads him a short distance away, further into the heart of the town and away from the wealthier citizens who can risk angering the unwanted Career living in their District. Once the bold stranger disappears from view, she drops her hold on his wrist. His arm remains suspended from where she had held it before quickly dropping back against his side.

"Afraid of a fight, 12?" Cato snarls, still irritated from the incident that just happened. He takes his anger out on her. "Worried I'd kill that man? Not like it would be difficult to tear into him. He's _soft." _

"Soft or not, it isn't worth doing something that will only get back to Snow. You can't risk it. I can't."

"Stupid, weak _slumrats,_" Cato says, his words simmering with the heat of his temper. He knows she's right, and that only serves to aggravate him further. He clenches his good hand into a fist and tries not to think about what would happen if he turned around now to punch that man in the face.

"Call him whatever you want, I don't care. But you can't do anything else to him, and he knows it. That's why he did what he did."

"It'd be worth it to teach him I'm not someone you mess around with."

"Half the people here haven't forgotten that, trust me." Katniss nods her head toward the people who continue to pass around them. "You do something like that and that number will definitely jump. You think they treat you bad now? Give them another reason to hate you by doing something to one of their own and you'll see how bad things can get."

"I haven't done _anything _to these people," Cato tells her, temper still hot and ready to snap.

"But you did things to _me _in the Games. And that's enough."

"Why should they care?"

"Because it could have been any one of their children. You don't understand because you come from a District that lives for the Games. Here, no one lives _through _the Games."

"So you're saying I should just let them treat me like that."

"I'm saying you can't do anything about it right now. You do, and it will make things get a lot worse. Snow would love it, and weren't you just saying how you would never side with him? If you do something that hurts someone here, it'd be as if you were choosing him."

"I'd never make it that easy for him."

"Good. Tell yourself that the next time something like this happens again."

Cato makes a noncommittal noise which Katniss figures is the closest to an agreement that she is going to get out of him. She begins to walk along the sidewalk again, and he follows her. As they walk down the path, she watches him rustle in his pockets and pull out his ever-familiar pill container. He takes one green pill out and pops it in his mouth, swallowing it down. Katniss doesn't remark on it, and he doesn't acknowledge it. He returns the pill container to his pocket, and several moments of silence pass by before he speaks again.

"Where are you going?"

"Mellark bakery."

"Bread boy's family shop? Why there?"

"Why anywhere?" Katniss answers, a question for a question. "I have nowhere specific to go here in town. Maybe if I bring back something sweet for my family, it will help them with the tour date being pushed up."

"Solving problems with sweets?"

"If it were only that easy," she says with a sigh. "Prim used to love to look at the frosting designs on the cakes there, even though we could never afford to actually buy one. It'll make her happy if I bring back one for her now to try."

"I don't know what it is with sweets and people. I don't understand the draw."

"Not a snack person? I know you didn't eat the dessert when you came over for dinner, but I figured it was because you were full."

"I was full, but that's not why. I never had any. No nutritional value in it, only adds fat. Not a good idea when trying to build muscle."

Katniss tilts her head at him, trying to understand. "District 2 didn't let you have sweets at all? So you've never had?"

"Yeah, so?"

"I didn't think Effie was right," Katniss says, "That's all she needs to hear. She'll never let it go."

"What did she say?"

"She told Peeta and I before the Games started that Careers weren't allowed sweets, while we were. But I didn't believe her at the time. I figured she was just trying to make us feel better, in her own way."

"And sweets make you feel better? It seems silly to me."

"That's because you've never had," Katniss replies. "We never had a lot growing up. It was too pricey for junk food in comparison to what money could buy instead for bread or cheese. But sometimes we'd have a little piece of candy or a cookie, especially when my father was alive. He would sometimes spend any spare coin he had to surprise us with a treat. After he died, I would take Prim down to Mellark bakery since the sweets there would remind her of him. Peeta would create such beautiful frosting designs on the cakes."

"Considering his camouflage skills in the Games, I'm not surprised that Mellark is such a good artist. He seems like he'd be the type."

"He is. I wish the cake that I'll buy today had one of his designs. It would have made Prim happy."

"I take it he's not coming back before the tour starts."

"No, probably not. He's still in the Capitol."

"You hear from him?"

"Yeah, he writes me letters almost every week. He's actually the one who told me about the tour getting moved up," Katniss says.

"I figured he would be. He surviving under Snow's thumb?"

"The best he can. From what I can tell he's made friends with some of the other victors, which can only help in the long run."

"You worried about him?" Cato asks.

"Of course. I'd never forgive myself if something happened to him while I wasn't there to help."

Cato studies her, unsure what to make of such a statement. "What's the deal with you two anyway? I know you don't love him in the way he loves you."

"After my father died, things were...tough...in my family. It was difficult back then just trying to survive. Peeta helped me when no one else would."

"And now you feel like you owe him."

Katniss looks at him, surprise coloring her features. "What do you mean?"

"There came a point in the Games after you realized that he wasn't with us Careers when you started putting him first. You risked yourself to keep him alive when you could have won without him. People only act like that when they feel they have a debt to pay."

"That's not true at all."

"Keep telling yourself that. It definitely is," Cato insists, despite Katniss shaking her head in disagreement. "Even after the Games, you were pretending to return his feelings since you didn't want to hurt him. You keep trying to protect Mellark as if it'd make up for whatever debt you think you owe him."

Cato can tell he's struck a nerve from the way Katniss is looking at him, a mixture of anger and self-consciousness at being read so closely. She grits her teeth in effort to hold back a biting reply, especially when she notices the way he's rubbing the side of his head in the manner he does when a headache starts to plague him.

"Headache?" She asks, looking to change the topic off Peeta and on to something else.

"One feels like it's starting up, yeah," Cato answers grudgingly. He and Katniss are both similar in the sense neither likes to admit to anything they see as a weakness. "I don't understand why. I took medication when I first felt it coming on. It should have gone away by now."

"Maybe your body is becoming immune to the medicine?"

"Maybe," he replies, and doesn't say anything further on the subject.

The duo continue to walk through the town, though at a more leisurely pace than the one Katniss originally set on the dirt road. Rushing would draw more unwanted attention, and it something she wishes to avoid. Though Cato is free to go where he chooses, he continues to walk alongside her. Neither bring it up as to why.

* * *

><p>::<p>

They arrive at Mellark Bakery without further incident. Katniss stops momentarily in front of the glass window, looking at the cakes that sit on display inside. None of the designs are as lovely as Peeta's creations used to be.

"People say that this is the best bakery in town," Cato comments. He observes the stonework architecture that makes up the front of the building, and the lighted sign that displays the bakery's name in clear white lettering. "Doesn't look like much."

"That's because you haven't tried anything here yet," she tells him patiently. "Come on, let's go in."

"I'm coming too?"

"Why else would you walk all this way if you weren't going to go in?"

Cato opens his mouth to reply but doesn't seem to be able to come up with a proper answer. So he shuts his mouth, walks past Katniss, and opens the door into the bakery. She follows him over the threshold, shaking her head at the sarcastic way he holds the door opens for her. She decides it's better to have him mock her than try to close the door in her face.

The bell above the door chimes softly as they enter the bakery. It is later in the day, so it is not as crowded as it usually would be in the mornings. Many of the bakery's patrons are fans of the fresh baked bread for breakfast, and those who can afford it flood the bakery daily with their business.

The display counters at the center of the shop are filled with desserts and pastries, keeping them separate from the bread. The bakery is swept clean and kept tidy, but there is a smudge of flour on the floor in the unmistakable shape of a footprint. No matter how much Mrs. Mellark tries, she cannot battle the messes that come along with the bakery business.

There is only one other customer currently in the bakery, and she is busy debating between the loaf of whole wheat bread versus the specialty focaccia bread sold only on Thursdays. The sales clerk, whom Katniss recognizes to be one of Peeta's older brothers, is helping the customer and doesn't look up as they enter the bakery.

"They keep the cakes over here," Katniss tells Cato as she heads in that direction. Cato looks over at the front window display of cakes with confusion. He turns to her, puzzled, and asks, "Aren't they over there?"

"They usually doesn't sell the display pieces they've made for the day. Otherwise the window will look empty. The ones for sale are behind the glass cases."

Cato, satisfied with the answer, joins Katniss over by the cakes. He studies the different cakes available for purchase, the various designs and types meaning nothing to him. "Fudge cake? Is that supposed to be good?"

"I think so. I had it once a long time ago and I liked it."

Cato squints at other cakes, looking at the name tags next to each type. "Cannoli cake? Red Velvet? Angel food?" He reads the names out loud. "How do you know which to get?"

"I don't," Katniss admits. "I'm going to take a guess and hope it's one she'll like."

"This one looks weird. It has a hole in it."

Katniss looks over to the one he's pointing at. "I've never had that one before. I think it's a Bundt cake."

"So it's supposed to look like that?"

"Probably," she tells him, a small smile threatening to spread across her face. She hides it from her companion. "I'm not a cake expert, you know. And I'm not much of a baker."

"How about that one?"

Katniss looks at the new cake that has captured Cato's attention. "Which? The chocolate one?"

"Yeah, that one."

The cake Cato's pointing at is a basic frosted chocolate layer cake. It has pink sugared flowers as decoration on top, and there's space in the center for where words can be added (at an additional charge, of course). The frosting is a rich, deep chocolate, the sides of the cake studded with chocolate chips. The place card next to it says that the interior cake is chocolate as well.

"It looks like something Prim may like. I know my mother used to enjoy chocolate years ago, so if Prim doesn't like it then I'm sure she'd eat it."

"Good pick then?" Cato asks her, voice smug.

"Good pick," she confirms, and this time she lets him see her smile.

The customer Peeta's brother was helping when they walked in has made her selection—the focaccia bread was a deal she just couldn't pass up—and she leaves the store with her purchase tucked safely beneath her arm. Peeta's brother turns his attention over to his next customer, grinning when he recognizes Katniss standing there. That smile quickly turns into a scowl when he sees the boy standing next to her.

"What's _he _doing here?" he asks Katniss, refusing to acknowledge the ex-Career beside her. His face is twisted into a deep frown. Katniss can feel the instantaneous change in Cato's demeanor, his relaxed stance shifting into something much more tense. The boy who was just asking her about the different types of cakes disappears completely, and he is replaced with the Career as if he never existed in the first place.

"Cato is with me," she says as politely as she can. "We're here to buy a cake for my family as a treat."

"He's with you?" Peeta's brother repeats, incredulous. His expression is one worn by people when they cannot believe what they are hearing. "Is he threatening you or something?"

"We decided to take a walk from the Victor's Village and into town since it was such a nice day," Katniss states calmly. She can feel the tension rising in Cato and she wants nothing more to avoid an incident. "No threats. No tricks. The only thing we want to do is buy a cake and then we'll leave."

"You don't have to leave, Katniss. You're always welcomed at the bakery, you know that," Peeta's brother reassures her. "It's this one over here who isn't welcomed."

"Isn't it against Panem law to refuse to serve a customer without a reason?" Cato asks. His words are bitten off and to the point. Having already been pushed earlier in the day by the stranger, Katniss doesn't need anyone to tell her that Cato won't take much more before his temper gets the better of him.

"You injuring my younger brother and trying to kill him multiple times isn't enough of a reason?" Peeta's brother snaps. "I think my family has every right not to want you here. I suggest you don't come back again."

"Your brother's alive, isn't he? What more do you possibly want?"

"What I want is for you to get out of my shop."

There is a faraway look starting to form in Cato's eyes, dilating his pupils so the black begins to take over the blue, and Katniss instantly recognizes it as the same expression he wore when facing down the Peacekeeper. Knowing full well how out of control he was that day, she surmises that this is going nowhere good.

"And we will," Katniss cuts in reassuringly. "I just really want to get a cake for my sister. She's upset about the tour being bumped up and I wanted to do something to make her happy." As she talks, Katniss curls her fingers around Cato's wrist once again, mimicking the similar manner she used to reach him when he almost killed the Peacekeeper. The pressure of her touch seems to jolt him from whatever place he is going in his head, grounding him once again. He glances away from the man behind the counter and looks at her instead.

Peeta's brother notices the contact and can't resist a sneer. "How can you stand to touch him? He's more a monster than a man."

Katniss tightens her grip on Cato's wrist. "He is a victor just like me. Like your brother. The cake, please?"

Peeta's brother holds her stare for a long moment, trying to make sense of her actions. He doesn't understand why Cato is there with her in the first place, nor why she would take his wrist in her hand. While this confusion is fair, she reasons, since most of the time she doesn't know how she ended up with Cato to begin with, the way Peeta's brother is behaving will only cause trouble. Both actions disgust him and he does little to hid it.

It is only out of respect for Katniss and for his brother that the man reaches for the cake they've selected and goes to box it. He seals it up with tape to prevent the top from accidentally opening, mumbling rude comments the entire time under his breath, none of it quietly. If Katniss can hear him, she has little doubt that Cato can as well. She keeps her hand encircled around his wrist, applying steady pressure . Cato doesn't comment on it, just like he never has before, but allows her to keep her hold on his arm. She wonders if this is because he simply doesn't care, or if he scares himself more than her touch does.

She wonders if he's seeing Clove, hearing Clove's poisonous words, at this very moment. What would she be urging him to do? Katniss is willing to bet it's nothing good.

"Here is the cake," Peeta's brother says as he sets the box down on the counter. "I gave you some cookies, free of charge. Nothing I said was directed at you, Katniss, and I hope it doesn't stop you from coming back."

"Of course not," Katniss says as sincerely as she can manage. She doesn't mean a word of it, too rattled by the outpouring of hate she's seen all day directed at the boy who stands tensely next to her. Katniss wonders how she would be treated in District 2 if their roles had been reversed. She doubts it would be very different from the treatment Cato has received, especially after her part with Clove's death.

The unwelcoming stare of Peeta's brother follows them out, his contempt managing to echo even within the tinkering of the shop bell as they close the door behind them. _Get out,_ the noise seems to say.

_Your kind is not welcomed here. _

* * *

><p>::<p>

"I've had enough with putting up with this crap from people around here, I'm going back in there and—"

"And what? Beating him up?"

"The idea is extremely tempting," Cato spits out, agitated. "It becomes more tempting by the second."

The duo stand a few feet away from the bakery doors, the glass exterior giving them both a clear view into the inside of the shop. Peeta's brother stands behind the counter, watching the pair with steely eyes. He meets Cato's irritable stare, smirks, and then brazenly flips him off.

It only takes Cato a mere moment to register the action before he starts to surge forward towards the Mellark Bakery entrance. Katniss, recognizing where this is heading, steps immediately in front of him. He tries to step around her, but she keeps herself solidly in his path. To reach the door, he'd have to force her out of the way, something she's not sure he's above doing.

"I'm not letting you go back in there," Katniss tell him as evenly as she can.

"Move!"

"No."

"Get out of the way, 12."

Katniss wraps her arms more securely around the cake box as she continues to blockade the door from him. "We talked about this before. You know you can't start anything that would draw Snow down on us."

"So I'm supposed to let every slumrat here treat me the way they've been doing?" Cato's expression is pinched and his forehead lined with exasperation. "I'm just supposed to accept that?"

"I'm not saying that. But you can't use violence as a solution for every problem. It's not going to work here, especially now."

The ex-Career looks at her as if she were touched in the head. "You're a hypocrite, you know that? A hypocrite. What's good for you isn't good for me?"

"Excuse me?" Katniss tilts her head in surprise, trying to figure out what he means. "I don't use my fists to solve my problems."

"You're just as violent as I am. I _saw _you in the Games, remember? And I see you now. You're so full of anger sometimes it chokes you."

Katniss shifts from one foot to another, clearly uncomfortable. She hates when Cato turns things on her, reading her in a way she tries to hide from the world, from even herself. Any bullshit she tries to feed him now will only be thrown back in her face, so she opts for some small truths.

"Sometimes," she says slowly. Her tone is low and reluctant, the words being draw out from her in the painful manner that goes hand in hand with the truth. "Sometimes, I feel as if I'm angry with everyone—angry with the world and almost everyone in it. The people who did nothing but watch as my family suffered, my father for dying, those who let the Hunger Games happen in the first place, the people who didn't volunteer when Rue's name was called... If I really am honest with myself, I'm angry about so many different things that it is almost overwhelming. If I'm really honest, it does feel as if it would choke me if I were to let it. But I don't use violence. It wouldn't fix things."

Cato fixes his attention on Katniss while she talks, his own high emotions cooling from rage to curiosity. Drawn away from the blatant nastiness of Peeta's brother, as well as most of District 12, he focuses on her instead.

"So what do you do?" he asks her quietly, "What do you do with all that anger?"

"I think that giving in to that kind of emotion will just continue to drag you down. It's important to have people around who you can talk to—you know, distract you from how things are? My family thinks they owe me, but sometimes I think I really owe them."

"...and when you don't have people like that?"

"Then you find other things to distract yourself with. I used to hunt in the woods, or even just spend time alone in the forest before the Games. It'd help me. It was peaceful."

Cato looks away from her beseeching stare. "I told you before. I don't have many hobbies."

"Then try to find something you like besides training. District 12 may not be much, but you can find different things you may like if you give it a chance."

Having lingered too long outside the bakery, especially after Cato's impressive display of anger, Peeta's brother has begun to grow suspicious. He has left the bakery counter and is heading for the door, his movement drawing Katniss's attention. Not wanting to test Cato's already limited patience any further, she draws him away from the door. Cato gives a final look toward the bakery, and she can see he truly does want nothing more than to go in there and unleash all of his negative emotions. He visibly swallows, and then with a sharp turn of his head, he begins to walk away from the bakery and back through town. Katniss follows alongside him as the two trace their steps back towards the Village.

"I've told you this before, but I don't think you really can understand, 12," Cato says as they walk in the direction towards home. "There was never any kind of life for me after the Games if I wasn't the winner of it all. It was either death or victory, not left living here where I don't belong." He bitterly gestures towards his scarred arm. "Not left as a cripple."

His words are ones she has heard before, and she thought she could understand. But studying the boy walking next to her, Katniss concludes that he may be right after all. The worlds they come from are both very different, so what chance do they have to understand each other?

"I've never been good with words," Katniss admits, "Haymitch and Effie worked hard to make sure I didn't say something stupid or come off completely unapproachable in front of Panem before the Games started. So if this doesn't come out right, that's why."

Cato casts her a sideways glance, taking in her shorter frame and the way her hands are clutched around the cake box, as if it's something precious. Anything for her sister probably is. He waits for her to gather her thoughts, and when she speaks, he listens.

"I know you think that if you won, _really _won, life would be a lot different than how it is now for you. You're right. I'd be dead and you wouldn't be here in this District," Katniss pauses to take a breath, and then continues on. "But I don't think coming back as a victor is easy."

"I don't understand."

"You think that I have everything you would have wanted if you had won—the fame, the recognition, the honor of being the victor. But I don't feel like _me _anymore. I have to try and act like the old Katniss, but winning the Games..." she trails off, unable to finish the sentence.

What she can't put into words is that winning the Hunger Games has changed some fundamental part of herself, twisting it into something darker and causing a taint that will never be removed, no matter how hard she tries. She has everything Cato wants, and can never have, but she doesn't think he'd be happy even if he had it. The Games tease its tributes with the possibility of the saving their own lives, but the victory only leads to a further loss of self.

Even if Cato had been the victor, she doubts it would be everything he was raised to believe. As Haymitch once told her, there were no winners in the Games, only those who have died and those who wait for death.

She can't tell him exactly how she feels, since it's something he'll never have the chance to fully understand. Just as Cato can't fully explain to her how important winning the Games was to him, Katniss can't show him in return how unfulfilling such a victory turned out to be.

Katniss can't change that, and neither can Cato. But there are other things that can change, if only given the chance.

They both reach the edge of town, the dirt road leading back to the Victor's Village laying in wait before them. The sun has started to set, the softening rays of light causing the gold within the leaves to glisten brightly. It's a faster walk back toward the Village than what it felt like before, and they soon reach their homes in what feels like no time at all.

The pair walk along the road, appreciating the quiet that embraces the sparsely populated village like an old friend. The Everdeen house draws closer as they approach, but Katniss chooses to stop when they are still more than several feet away.

Cato, stopping as well, looks at her in question. "What now? Did you forget what house you live in?"

She doesn't answer right away. Katniss is too busy rustling through her pockets, pulling out the small plastic bag of cookies Peeta's brother had given to her in apology. There are roughly a dozen cookies inside, visible through the clear plastic. Most seem to be a basic—yet delicious—chocolate chip variety, with one or two frosted sugar cookies thrown into the mix.

Katniss stoops to place the cake box at her feet and then proceeds to open the bag of cookies. She reaches inside, selecting a chocolate chip cookie, and draws it out of the bag. Holding it safely in the palm of her hand, she offers it out to Cato.

"Here. For you."

Cato eyes it warily. "What do you want me to do with that?"

"Just try it," she tells him.

"I never had one before."

"That's kind of the point," she says, "It's not going to bite you. It's a cookie, not a wolf."

"I'm not going to like it. No one in District 2 likes sweet things."

"Stop being stubborn. You won't know until you try it."

Unable to resist a challenge, Cato reaches tentatively for the cookie she holds out for him. He takes it from her, bringing it up to his mouth and sinking his teeth into it with a defiant bite. He chews quickly and swallows fast. Cato does his best to keep his expressionless mask up, but even he can't stop the flash of surprise that flickers across his face.

"It's good, isn't it?"

"It's...different."

"Different bad or different good?"

"Good. It tastes...good." Cato pops the rest of the cookie in his mouth, chewing thoroughly. His tongue darts out to catch any crumbs that might have fallen around his mouth, and Katniss can't stop the grin from forming across her face.

Bending down, she reclaims her cake, hosting the box back in her arms. She begins to take the final steps towards her house, walking towards the door. The light emitted passed the windows shines bright against the gathering dark. Looking behind her, she calls out, "Are you coming in?"

Cato looks at her, uncomprehending. He hasn't been inside the Everdeen house since after the dinner party, despite Mrs. Everdeen's and Prim's sincere invitation for him to come back. It is one thing to accept the invite once, but it would be another all together should he return a second time.

There have been times, over the course of the last lonely weeks, that a small part of him wanted to go back. He didn't let himself dwell on that part often.

"I figured since you helped pick out the cake, you'd want to try a piece," Katniss tells him. The fading light of the sun gleams against the colored iris of her eyes, making them glow. "My family would love to see you again. It'd be a nice surprise for them."

Cato hesitates, looking at the girl in front of him whom he has wronged in ways he both recognizes and others he never will. She is inviting him into her house, and furthermore into her life, and some part of him knows by saying yes will only change things further between them. There will be no going back on this path they've both found themselves on.

She told him earlier that it was people that kept her grounded. That it was people who kept the rage from consuming her. He told her he didn't have anyone like that, while she did. She doesn't need another when she already has more people than he's ever had. And yet, here she is, standing against the dusk, extending her hand out to him and offering a chance to change that, should he have the desire to take it.

"That bakery has crappy people working for it," he says slowly, "but if their cake is anything like their cookies, it'll be difficult to say no."

"Should we save you a slice then?" Katniss asks. The question hangs in the air, but Cato doesn't hesitate any further.

"You better hope I don't eat the whole damn cake."

* * *

><p>::<p>

As predicted, Mrs. Everdeen and Prim's sadden moods change upon the arrival of their unexpected guest. Distracted from the larger issue of the looming tour, the two focus on Cato and forget for the night what troubles they have.

The squeal of joy that leaves Prim upon seeing the cake has Katniss smiling for the rest of the night.

Mrs. Everdeen whips up another plate of food for Cato, and the dinner passes without incident. Mrs. Everdeen takes the plates once they are all finished and retreats into the kitchen, leaving Prim, Katniss, and Cato together in the dining room.

"I'm happy you're here, Cato. I figured you must be running out of the poultice we made for you, so Mom and I put together another batch," Prim says, offering him another jar much like the ones she has given to him before. "Do you think they're helping?"

"I think it's better than not using them at all," Cato tells her. He reaches for the jar and tips his head in thanks. "It does feel like my arm isn't as stiff as it was before."

"The herbs are helping to loosen the scars," Prim says, triumphant. "And you've been working your arm every day, right? The scars shouldn't tighten up as much if you keep doing that."

"Would you look at that—a mighty Career with a twelve-year-old girl for his doctor," Katniss jokes. She is resting her chin against the palm of her hand, her elbow set upon the table top as a brace.

Cato gives her a dirty look. "Funny. Always so funny."

"How much can you use your bad arm now anyway?" Prim asks, ignoring her sister's jabs and trying her best to be as professional as possible for her patient. Cato demonstrates for her, glaring at Katniss while she laughs. Mrs. Everdeen returns to the dining room and observes his range of motion as well, her eyes missing nothing.

"Prim," Mrs. Everdeen tests her daughter, "What do you think?"

The younger girl considers her mother's question, going over everything Mrs. Everdeen has taught her so far. "I think that he should probably be able to use his arm more than what he can now."

This piques Cato's attention, and he looks over at Mrs. Everdeen for confirmation. "Is she right?"

"Maybe. I know we can't heal you completely, we don't have the means. I don't even know if it's possible, to be honest. The Capitol doctors weren't lying about the damage that was done to you. But I know the herbs we've been giving you to use have good healing qualities. There should be some more progress than what you've had so far."

"Yeah, Mom's right," Prim agrees. "I've been trying to figure it out as to why but I'm still not sure. I'm sorry."

"Don't be," he says, "It's okay, kid. It's something that it worked at all."

"Are you taking any other medication?" Mrs. Everdeen muses, trying to come up with an answer. "Sometimes it could interfere with what we've been using on you."

"He takes pills for his headaches," Katniss pips up before Cato can reply. "He takes them all the time."

"Could you answer any faster?" He asks her, sarcastic.

"It doesn't matter," Mrs. Everdeen says, "But can I see what you've been taking?"

Acknowledging defeat, Cato digs into his pocket and pulls out his container of pills. He places it on the table and scoots it over towards Mrs. Everdeen, who picks it up.

"I take these daily," he says, "I got them from the Capitol after the Games."

"And you use them for headaches, like Katniss said?"

"My head hasn't been the same since the Games, I get bad headaches sometimes." Cato deliberately leaves out his other issues, one of which involve seeing his dead Career partner from time to time. He throws Katniss a look, as if challenging her to dare reveal what he still desperately wants to hide. "These help."

Mrs. Everdeen pops the lid off the container and rattles around the contents of the tube. The remaining green pills roll around inside, knocking into one another to make an irritating _clacking _sound. "There aren't many left in here. Are you almost out?"

"I'll have to get more soon, yeah." It is actually his last container, and he doesn't know what he'd do when they run out. He has the additional container Brutus brought him a few weeks ago, still sitting unopened in his bedroom. It should be enough to get him to the start of the tour, and then he figures he can get more while at the Capitol.

"Do you mind if I hold on to these for a little bit?" Mrs. Everdeen asks, setting the container back down on the table. "If you think you can go for a day or two without them, that is. I want to see if it has any affect on the treatment we've been using for your arm."

He doesn't like that idea at all. The headaches that plague him daily have only been getting stronger, and the notion of having to get through one without having the pills handy almost makes him shudder. "Do you think that it's possible?"

"It's possible," Mrs. Everdeen surmises. "Not likely, but possible. But I'd still like to try, if you're comfortable with it."

"If it could help me make any improvements with my arm, I'll give it a shot," Cato says, though it's clear he's not happy. Katniss watches him from across the table, her expression unreadable. She holds her tongue and doesn't comment any further.

"Good!" Mrs. Everdeen says. She slaps the cap back onto the container, the action causing the pills to make the irritating _clacking _sound again. "After all, what could possibly happen?"

* * *

><p>Little does she know.<p>

* * *

><p>::<p>

**I want to thank everyone who reviewed (both recently and a while ago) for their words of encouragement. It really did give me the motivation to get this chapter written and posted and I'm grateful for the time you took to let me know this story still has its followers. As I've promised before, **_Convergence _**will be completed, whether it takes me a while or not to get done. I keep writing longer chapters each time and I swear it's not on purpose, it just seems to happen. **

**The last couple of chapters have been (relatively) calm. This will change starting in the next chapter.  
><strong>


	21. To ---

"Not only will I face death, it's sure to be a long and painful one at Cato's hand."

—_The Hunger Games, _pg. 223

**Convergence**

Chapter Twenty-One

It only takes one person to reexamine who they are before you find yourself doing the same.

* * *

><p>::<p>

It strikes her suddenly that night as she's about to fall asleep. Unexpected and damningly fast, she's not even sure how the notion had been given enough room to grow. Tucked up in her bed and with the drowsy pull of sleep tugging in earnest to drag her under, the thought stoles away into her mind.

There was no act with him. Not from her.

What did that mean?

The Games had changed her, this much was true. She knows it, her family knows it, any of the few people close to her can recognize the difference. Gale, the one person who used to know her better than she knew herself, can sense that something's not quite right. But even he can't pinpoint every change and know the full extent of damage done to her after emerging from the arena.

Katniss cannot be Katniss, since the person she is now has changed too much from the person that she was. And she doesn't trust the person she's become—it's too unpredictable. But everyone has roles to play and she fills the ones she has as best she can in order to go on living. Mrs. Everdeen needs a daughter, Prim wants a sister, and Gale asks for his friend, so she makes them all happy by playing the parts she did before. Having Cato around after the completion of the Games isn't ideal for this way of coping, but it turns out to be easy to fit him into the same kind of mold she uses to deal with all the other people in her life. Having only ever seen her as his enemy, she has no problem thinking the same of him. She knows where she stands with him, and he with her. It is only another part to play, and it is one she knows all the lines to.

Until today.

She told Cato that winning has changed her. It's the truth. It's also not much of a secret for those who love her. However, unwilling to push Katniss to face what she isn't ready to accept, her family and friends leave it alone as something that goes mostly unsaid. Only Prim has dared to breach this boundary, but it had been _Prim _who had said it, not her sister. Katniss has tried so hard to avoid admitting it, for admitting it will give it life. But when she inevitably does, of all the people she could have said it to, it ends up being to him.

She has only begun to recognize that any kind of life built upon such fragile foundation will always come tumbling down. It only takes one person to create a crack, and then just look how the rest will fall.

For slowly, with every meeting they've had and all the time spent together, things are starting to shift. The way she has been living her life—afraid to see what the Games have altered about her fundamental self—cannot last. The roles they've played together cannot last. For the thought that follows her to sleep, the thought that tiptoes in the night, the thought that flares brightly through her mind, is this:

Cato is changing, and she is changing with him.

She doesn't even know if he realizes it yet.

She has seen little signs of it, springing up here and there and disappearing before she can get close enough to realize what they were. Katniss has been holding pieces of the puzzle in her hands for all this time, collecting them as she goes just to see how it'll all fit. The answer may still be forming, but it has formed enough for her to realize this much. If he is changing, then who is he changing into?

More importantly, who is she?

Haymitch can see the change too, and it drives him to keep Katniss away from Cato. All his years of experience have warned him against Careers, for he has seen too many in his time to ever believe one has the ability to change. So he keeps his watchful eyes turned toward the ex-Career, anticipating a clever trick of masks and pretty lies that he wants nothing more than to protect Katniss from. It stands to reason that he might have been right had this particular Career remained in his home District. And then again, maybe not. For what Haymitch sees as a lie, Katniss is beginning to see as a possibility.

If he changes from something other than adversary, what place would he then hold in her life? He has always been Cato, the enemy. Who will he become, if not someone to be hated?

Who could he become?

All of this flashes through her mind, once last surge of brilliance darting through her brain like tiny fragments of light. All possibilities, stemming from the simple chance of change.

But like all thoughts born upon the cusp of sleep, they fade away as quickly as they appear. Katniss falls asleep, her last thoughts of Cato and all that goes with him, and later wakes up with no memory of having thought it at all.

But it has not been for nothing.

She might have lost the memory, but she hasn't lost the seeds. They remain tucked away in the corners of her mind for safe keeping and slowly continue to grow. One day, they will bloom.

Katniss is changing, and he is changing with her.

She just doesn't realize it yet.

* * *

><p>::<p>

"President Snow wants me to come and see him."

Finnick goes very still. He is sitting at his desk, across the room from where Peeta stands. There are a bunch of books scattered across the surface of the desk, a mishmash of text and print. Mixed in among the books are various magazines tossed this way and that. Most of them are open to odd pages; the occasional one dog-eared for later. It's difficult to see the titles, but one or two can be spotted amidst the mess, such as _Panem Pop!, Glam Girls, _and _Rising Stars_.

This isn't the first time Peeta has found a trashy magazine collection in Finnick's possession. The vapid titles are a popular source of entertainment in the Capitol, though the outlying Districts judge them to be frivolous and shallow. It didn't take Peeta long to discover how many Panem citizens rush to read the latest edition in order to stay on top of their fashion game. Many of the popular magazines give weekly rankings to rising Capitol stars, and in doing so, help give them further celebrity status.

Finnick, who spends most of his time posing as a just another Capitol peacock, isn't much different from all the other celebrities who clamber to buy the latest magazine release. Anyone who is anybody reads them, but only the most famous are actually featured within the magazines. Finnick himself has already been featured several times in various magazine titles, occasionally even gracing the front cover.

It wouldn't surprise most of Panem that the District 4 victor would read this kind of magazine, given his well-known reputation. It's only shocking to those who knew Finnick beyond his fabricated public personality to believe he would choose to read such garbage on his own private time. The first time he spotted Finnick flipping through the pages of _Panem Pop!, _Peeta laughed openly at him. Finnick simply saved his spot in the magazine and leveled the other boy with such a haughty stare that immediately caused Peeta to shut up.

"You think it's funny that I'm reading this?" Finnick had asked him that day. "You have to use your brain in order to survive around here. Think as to why."

Peeta learned then, as he continues to do every day, that Finnick does nothing without reason. Every move he makes, party he attends, person he beds, all of it is done under careful calculation. The District 4 victor is playing a dangerous game, and it is one he refuses to lose.

Finnick doesn't place value in money—his currency lies elsewhere. Money, though valuable, will not get him where he needs to be. So instead, Finnick trades in secrets.

In the superficial world of the Capitol, there is no one better to know the best secrets than the biggest stars. Finnick makes sure the brightest of them all are very well acquainted with him, choosing who would be worth his efforts with the precision of a surgeon. He uses the magazines, one tool of many at his disposable, to track those would could prove most valuable to the rebellion. He pleases them and praises them and then makes off with the biggest bounty of all—knowledge.

But Finnick knows better than anyone that all of his careful planning and personal sacrifices will amount to nothing should Snow find evidence against him. He's not stupid enough to believe Snow doesn't have his suspicions, but with nothing tangible to hold over his head, Snow can't touch him (yet). He, along with other victors, place themselves at risk every day. They've been working tirelessly to help the growing rebellion, with only a few of their top agents having the ability to slip information to their secret ally. Peeta has been sworn to secrecy, but even he doesn't know the identity of their patron.

"What did you do?"

"I didn't do anything," Peeta says defensively. "I've done everything you've said to do since that night at the party."

Finnick turns around in his chair, placing down the magazine he had been reading. He meets Peeta's worried stare with a frown. "Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Peeta, _are you sure?" _

"Dammit, Finnick. Panem thinks you've taken me on as your student. I haven't given anyone any reason to doubt me."

But Finnick did doubt him. He's been suspicious of the new victor from the start, not trusting the way Snow has separated him from the other two victors. He only took him under his wing in order to figure out if Peeta was a mole, placed amongst the other victors but secretly working for Snow. But as the weeks passed, nothing revealed that Peeta was anything more than he what he said he was: a lonely and confused new victor. So Finnick decided to keep him close, slipping him small pieces of inconsequential rebellion information as a test to his loyalty, but despite his doubts, Peeta continued to pass each time. He has only just started to trust Peeta and consider the possibility that he may not actually be involved with Snow, and now this happens.

The older victor looks at Peeta for a long moment before deciding that he is telling the truth, at least at the moment. Everything about this makes him uneasy. "Maybe he's checking in on you? Snow used to do that with me after I won my Games."

"He's done that with me too. But I'm not sure what he wants now."

"Whatever it is, be careful," Finnick says. He gestures towards the magazines and books splayed across the table. "I've done too much to have this all fail now. Too much depends on what we're doing, what some of the other victors are doing."

"I won't let anyone down."

"You better not," Finnick urges, his eyes steely. "You better be prepared to bullshit."

* * *

><p>::<p>

And bullshit Peeta does.

"My, my, Mr. Mellark. I was under the impression the last time we spoke that a certain girl meant so much more to you." President Snow sits across from him in his office, hands folded together and his expression scolding. "How very wrong I was with that."

"I'm sorry, President Snow. I don't understand what you mean. Katniss is everything to me."

"Don't lie," Snow says tartly. "I can tell when you do."

Peeta refuses to yield. "I apologize, but I really don't know."

"Obstinate boy."

"Sir?"

"If you continue playing the fool, you'll not like where it gets you. Or, say, others. Are you still going to claim innocence?"

Peeta looks President Snow steadily in the eyes. "Yes."

"I find that very hard to believe, Mr. Mellark."

"What can I do to make you?"

"You can start with telling me the truth. I have people everywhere in this nation, and especially in this Capitol." President Snow leans forward slightly, and Peeta can catch a whiff of roses as he does. "It's been brought to my attention that you've been spending an awful amount of time with Mr. Odair."

"Is there something wrong with that? Many victors spend time together. Something about winning the Games seems to form a strong sort of connection."

"No, nothing wrong per say," President Snow says, drawing his words out and heightening the tension between them, "It's more a matter of how you've spending your time."

"Whoever brought to your attention that Finnick and I are friends must have also told you that we usually just go to parties together and entertain guests. I don't see anything wrong with that, sir."

"Ah, yes. Nothing wrong with that at all," the older man repeats, softly mocking.

"Do you always question victors in their choice of friends?"

"Only when they deserve questioning."

"Finnick is one of the most popular victors in the entire country. I doubt most people would agree with you that he's someone who has to be watched in the way you're implying."

"And what is it I'm implying, Mr. Mellark?" Snow's top lip curls up into a semi-smile, missing nothing. He continues to push, not backing down. "I'm most interested to hear what thought jumped into the forefront of your mind. Tell me."

"That maybe Finnick's, um, particular _friendliness _with people would encourage me to do the same?" Peeta lies smoothly, picking the first falsehood that comes to him. "If that's the case, don't worry, sir. I'd never cheat on Katniss."

"If only that were it, Mr. Mellark. The Capitol already loves you. I'd do nothing but incur their regard if I could only give you to them in the same manner I gave Mr. Odair years ago," President Snow says, his words light but their meaning wicked. "Mr. Odair may want everyone to think his thoughts are as pretty and vacant as his face, but I know better than that. As I'm sure do you."

"Finnick and I just attend parties together. He's fun to have as a friend, but his real self is nothing more than a flirt. I've never seen signs of him being anything other than that."

"Tell me, does it sound convincing to you when you say that? Because it doesn't to me."

"I'm not sure who would ever think that Finnick could be something other than a playboy," Peeta says carefully, "But playboy or not, he's been a good friend to me. Hanging out with him makes me miss home less than I would without him."

Snow's hands flex as if he'd love to wrap them around Peeta's neck. He maintains his placid demeanor, though his brow is furrowed and face spiteful. "I'm just trying to do you a favor, Mr. Mellark, and warn you against encouraging Mr. Odair's attention. It would be wise to listen."

"If he is someone as dangerous as you say, then show me the proof," Peeta says. His voice doesn't betray his thoughts, but internally his heart is beating faster than it should and there's sweat gathering on his palms. He knows Snow will never believe him, so he makes the only move he can. "I'll have no choice then but to listen."

The older man stares for a long moment at Peeta, his mouth twisted in disdain. He takes a breath too long to answer, giving Peeta the answer he needs. Without proof, Snow has nothing. Peeta knows that Finnick, who is already well aware Snow doesn't trust him, will be relieved to hear it.

"Exactly," Peeta says, triumphant. "You don't have proof since there is none. It's all just an innocent misunderstanding."

President Snow's expression is ugly. "You are many things, Mr. Mellark, but innocent is not one of them. Neither is stupid. You may play as dumb as you want, but you're convincing no one in this room of it. We both know what is going on here." He leans forward again, using his sheer presence to crowd Peeta. "Don't you wish to know why I've brought you here to the Capitol?"

The words cause a chill to stir deep within his veins. "I thought it was to perform the duties of a victor?"

"Yes, indeed," Snow says softly. "And we both know that victors love and support their Capitol, do we not?"

"I do."

"And for the sake of the Capitol, any victor who is worthy of the title would do everything in his power to protect the country's best interests, am I right?"

"Of course."

"And if it were to be found out, hypothetically of course, that a victor is withholding information that would go against his Capitol, and thus his country, do you know what I think would happen then?"

Peeta's expression doesn't change. "What would that be?"

"I think that the victor should be worried about what would happen to his loved ones, his family, his District. Especially if this victor had someone special in his life, let's say, a fiery girl who has her own issues with the rules?"

"And just what would happen to them?"

"Nothing that they would be able to walk away from."

Peeta swallows hard, his fingernails digging into the fabric of his jeans from where he presses them against his knees. President Snow's eyes gleam with malice. "Do you think that their lives are worth the cost of protecting someone else? A practical stranger, who uses lies and deceit to get what he needs?"

For the first time since meeting with Snow, Peeta can't come up with an answer.

"It doesn't seem worth it to me, now does it? Especially when this stranger would not do the same for you. You only need to do the right thing, my dear boy, and help me bring this particular stranger to the justice he has coming to him," Snow urges persuasively.

"This is all hypothetically, sir?" Peeta finally answers, unable to put off withholding a response any longer.

"Hypothetically, yes. For now," Snow says, his words nowhere close to comforting. "Are you sure there's nothing you wish to tell me about your friend, the charming Mr. Odair?"

* * *

><p>::<p>

Later, after Peeta emerges from his meeting with Snow, he finds his way back to Finnick's room. Upon being asked if they had anything to worry about, Peeta would look the older boy straight in the face and say, "No. Nothing at all."

* * *

><p>::<p>

The next day starts off with the promise of good things to come. Katniss wakes up with the lingering feeling as if she's had a pleasant dream, despite not being able to remember anything about it. The blankets she's snuggled under are warm and soft, and there's the smell of food cooking in the kitchen that makes the house feel downright cozy.

Thought she doesn't know where it comes from, Katniss wakes up with an unacknowledged desire for change.

After the dramatics of yesterday, there's a feeling instilled within her that quietly urges for action instead of the familiar stagnancy. Today, the urge prompts, can be a day to forget about everything she's done wrong and focus on getting some things right. There's those who would argue she's done plenty of things right, but Katniss isn't the type of person who can generally see that. It's too hard, sometimes, to see past the wrong.

The tour may be starting sooner than expected, and Katniss may be leaving quicker than she planned, but there's still time to set certain things right.

Mrs. Everdeen and Prim are already gone by the time she heads downstairs, so Katniss spends most of her morning into mid-afternoon in peaceful solitude. Her family is busy attending to a patient in the far part of town, and she doesn't expect to see either one of them for most of the day. Unable to do anything that didn't require constant vigilance, she can't even sit still in her free time. Katniss takes it upon herself to do chores around the house, and even begins to collect firewood in preparation for the coming autumn. The Victory Tour can run at variable lengths, all depending on how long Snow wanted to keep his victor on parade. All in all, it made it difficult to figure out as to when she'll be able to come back home. Worried she won't be around to help keep her family warm when the weather turns, Katniss builds their woodpile with earnest determination.

It's well into midday when she finally puts down her father's old axe. Wiping the sweat from her brow, Katniss heads back inside the house to shower and change before her family gets home for dinner. She isn't expecting one of the two to be already inside the house when she walks through the door.

"Prim?"

Katniss's younger sister looks up from her work. There's various herbs sprawled out in front of her, and Prim appears to have been reading from a list. "Oh, hi Katniss."

"You're home early. Where's Mom?"

"She's still with our patient, trying to get her broken wrist sorted out. It's a worse break than it looked at first."

"So what are you doing back here? Shouldn't she need your help if it's that bad?"

"It's a broken bone. Mom has it covered. Besides," Prim gestures to the herbs and vials of random medicines that litter the tabletop, "I need to get started on the medicine we use for the pain. It has to sit for at least eight hours to do any good, and that's only after everything is mixed together. It's better if I got started on it now than wait another couple of hours to come home and then start."

"Makes sense," Katniss agrees. "I'm going to take a quick shower, but let me know if you leave before I'm done."

"Okay," Prim says, her attention already focused back onto her work. She reaches over to a random vial, consults the label, and then dumps it into the mixing bowl. "Sounds good."

* * *

><p>::<p>

The warm water feels divine against the stretch of her skin. It washes away all of the day's sweat and grime, leaving her body clean. Katniss takes a longer shower than she planned on, but Prim is still there at the table when she emerges from the bathroom.

"I figured you'd be gone by now," Katniss says, her voice causing her sister to jump slightly. "Hard at work?"

"Katniss! I didn't hear you come in," Prim answers, somewhat frazzled. "You barely make any noise when you walk."

"You're not the first person to say that," she tells her sister wryly. "How's that concoction of yours coming along?" Katniss crosses the room, placing her dirty clothes and used towels in the laundry bin Mrs. Everdeen stores in one of the closets. She keeps one towel, using it to dry her hair.

"I'm almost done with it."

"That's good."

Comfortable silence slips into the room between the two sisters. Katniss takes a seat at the table, hanging the used towel across the back of an empty chair, and begins to work a comb through her wet hair. Prim, still consulting the list Katniss spotted when she first entered the house, mostly ignores her sister in effort to get the mixture done. She reaches for the final herb, placing it in the bowl, and then mixes it all together.

"I think that should be it."

"All done?"

"Yeah."

Katniss eyes the mess of vials and unused herbs scattered across the table, taking in the runny mess that coats her sister's hands from where she mashed together ingredients. "You're going to stink with that stuff on your hands. Isn't there a better way to mix it together?"

Prim sticks her tongue out from where she sits. "Well, you were pretty stinky yourself when you first came in the house. What were you doing anyway?"

"Working on the woodpile."

"The woodpile? Katniss, it's only September."

"I know. I want to be ready though, just in case I'm not home when it starts to get cold."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"You're always looking out for us, aren't you?"

The older girl studies the blonde, trying to determine if she placed any hidden meaning on the words. "Of course. You're my family. If I don't, who will?"

"I like to think that we can look out for each other together," Prim says hesitantly, unsure of her sister's reaction. "It's not fair if it's all on you."

"Prim, I—" Katniss begins to say, but then changes her mind. "You know, we never talked about what happened after we last fought."

Prim stiffens almost instantly. "Why are you bringing this up?"

"We never had a chance to talk about it, not with everything that happened with the Peacekeeper and Cato and—well, you know that already. But I wanted to talk about it, you know? I didn't want you to think I was ignoring what you said to me."

"I shouldn't have said anything like that to you," Prim says. Her expression carries the weight of guilt and some small form of self-loathing. "I called you a liar. I _yelled _at you."

"I deserved it."

"No, you didn't. You've done so much for us, especially for me. I should have realized what kind of effect bringing it up would have on you before I said what I did."

"But you were right with what you said."

"Katniss, you don't have to say that."

"No, let me. It's about time that I did," Katniss insists. The words she said only the day before come swimming up her throat, fighting to keep themselves lodged. Normally she would let them, for saying that loud out would only hurt more than it does to keep them inside. But ignoring something will not make it any less true, no matter how thoroughly she tried to convince herself.

"You were right when you told me a couple of weeks ago that I've...changed," The words fight her until the very end, but Katniss forces them out and leaves herself exposed. "I have changed."

The words hang between the two sisters. Prim looks at the older girl with something akin to wonder, while Katniss is left feeling surprised. Saying it out loud was actually easier than she thought it would be. Perhaps admitting it yesterday, calling herself out to Cato, had made it easier to stomach a second time?

"I'm still trying to figure out what that means. It scares me sometimes."

"You're allowed to be scared, Katniss," Prim says softly.

"Am I?"

"You're not alone anymore. We're here for you, like you've always been there for us."

"Prim—" Katniss begins to say, and then cuts herself off. She is happy she is able to open up to her sister for the first time in what feels to be a very long while. But feelings are tough, and expressing them are even tougher.

"You don't have to promise me anything," Prim says, filling the emotionally packed silence with sincerity. "But I want you to know you don't have to pretend to be someone you're not anymore. That it's okay with us, you know?"

"I know," Katniss answers, and then gives her a small, hesitant smile. Prim returns it instantly, her own hopeful.

There's something between the two of them that relaxes immediately following this conversation, a rift the two sisters weren't fully aware existed until this point. It loosens, as if exhaling in one big sigh, and the unknown tension that's been there since the Games starts to smooth itself out.

"What are you going to do now?" The younger girl asks, and then rushes to specify what she means. "With the rest of the day. I think we're good on wood for a while."

"I think so too. And I'm not sure. What about you?"

"Clean this up before Mom gets home," Prim gestures towards the medical herbs and vials arranged on the surface of the table. "I pulled out almost our entire stock of supplies. No matter what jar I need, it always seems to be in the back of the cabinet."

"Isn't that how it usually goes?" Katniss asks. She begins to braid her damp hair, her fingers mindlessly working the strands into the familiar pattern. "What do you use that one for?" She nods her head towards a blue vial on Prim's right.

"Oh that?" Prim picks up the vial, inspecting it. "It's a type of root mixture. We use it for helping with stomachaches."

"And that one?"

The younger girl looks at the indicated clear jar. "Helps with labor pains."

"What about that one?"

"This one?" Prim looks at the vial Katniss has redirected her attention to. "Hm, I'm not actually sure." She reaches for the vial, popping open the lid, and looks inside. "Oh, it's Cato's pills."

Katniss looks curiously at her sister and the vial she holds. "His pills? Weren't they in a different container?"

"Yes, but Mom put them in here instead. She didn't want any trouble if a Peacekeeper came around and saw we had someone else's medication. We know Snow is just looking for a reason to bring us trouble."

"Can't hurt to be careful," Katniss says, agreeing whole-heartedly. "Did you guys get a chance to look at it and see if there's anything weird going on?"

"No, not yet. We weren't expecting the accident that caused the broken wrist down at the mines today," Prim says, putting the vial back on the table. She looks for where she put the lid amongst the mess of ingredients strewed across the wood surface.

Katniss reaches the end of her braid, tucking the final pieces of hair into place. She pulls at the hair tie that she keeps around her wrist, ready to wrap it around the end of the braid. The cheap rubber, having been used frequently and now worn out, breaks under the force. The rubber snaps out of her hands and proceeds to fling itself across the room.

The _snapping! _noise the hair tie makes, as well as the unexpected launch from one side of the kitchen to the other, makes Prim jump as it whizzes by. While Katniss swears from the sting left behind on her wrist from the broken rubber, the startled younger Everdeen jerks up from where she sits, her knees knocking against the table. The collection of jars and vials jump as well, the force of Prim's impact causing some vials to tip over or roll off the table all together.

"Dammit, I'm sorry Prim. Are you okay?" Katniss asks, rubbing the red spot left behind on her wrist. The hair she just braided falls loose around her face without the tie to hold it in place.

"Yeah, it surprised me," Prim says, looking at the mess of vials and jars. Katniss gets up and begins to walk towards her sister, but stumbles forward slightly before she's halfway to the other side. "Did you trip?"

"I stepped on some of the ones that hit the floor. Which pills are these?"

Prim looks at the vial that's now sporting a wicked crack down the middle.

"I think they're Cato's."

* * *

><p>::<p>

Hours earlier, roughly around the time Katniss wakes up safe in her own bed, Cato lays awake in his.

For the most part, the night prior had ended on a surprisingly good note. He had wondered if he'd regret accepting Everdeen's offer after he left their house, but no such feelings have surfaced so far. He has more poultice for his arm, in addition to Mrs. Everdeen and her daughter's promise to look into ways to help it heal further.

All in all, besides the glaring discomfort of giving up his last bottle of pills to them, it has been a decent night. Cato returns home, stomach full of delicious cake, and walks into his bedroom. Changing into more comfortable clothing, he treats his arm with the smelly medicine one last time before settling down to sleep for the rest of the night.

He gets an hour, maybe two, of rest. And then he wakes up to a strong burst of pain that's starting to build within the walls of his skull. Cato tries to push the pain away, burying it deep within his mind where it can't come out and hurt him. That only works for a little while.

The headache only grows.

Over the dark course of the night, Cato tries everything he can to make the pain in his head lessen. Nothing works. He rolls this way and that, tries sleeping on his stomach instead of his back, and, at one point of pure frustration, even puts his pillow over his head.

The first light of morning reaches across the sky with sluggish fingers, and he has not slept for most of the night.

"This fucking sucks," he curses out loud, as if saying it will make him feel better. Giving up on sleep, Cato sits up in his bed. The disjointed lines of empty pill bottles that cover much of the room mock him, as if by being empty they've done him a personal wrong.

Looking at empty bottles does him no good. He leaves his room, heading for a different part of the house. The rest of the morning rolls on, the pain of the headache getting worse with each passing hour. Cato has always taken the painkillers by this point within a headache's progression. He has never tried to go so long without taking any medication for the pain, especially when headaches tended to start only hours apart from one another. The headaches hadn't been spaced so closely together in the beginning, at least not right after the Games, but the passing weeks have found the time between the pain becoming less and less.

It is around noonish when Clove makes her unwelcomed appearance. She is leaning against the wall, watching him as he rubs his fingers against the sides of his throbbing skull.

"Looks like someone is having a good day."

"Fuck you, Clove." Cato doesn't even bother to look up.

"Sorry, not interested then and not interested now," the shade teases. She is flickering in and out from where she leans, but her expression remains haughty. "Why don't you just take one of your pills if you're in so much pain?"

Cato refuses to answer, but that doesn't deter her.

"Oh, that's right," Clove says, tone jovial. "You can't because you were stupid enough to give away your last bottle."

Cato gets up from his place on the sofa and walks past the taunting ghost. He runs a cloth under the faucet water and returns to lie back down, placing the cloth over his head. Clove tuts, as if amused by what she sees.

"Do you really think _that's _going to help you? Like seriously, did you think like oh gee, things will be fine now because I've got this damp towel to put on my head? The damp towel will stop the pain, my life worries are over? Now I'm cured?"

The District 2 victor rolls onto his side and away from her. His only sign of acknowledgment to what she says is a quick flip of the bird.

Clove cackles. Her non-corporeal body continues to become clearer, as if solidifying with each passing hour. She flickers much less than before.

The headache grows from bad to worse, finally settling on horrific. Cato feels as if his brain is going to explode from within the confines of his skull. He wants to storm over to the Everdeen house right now and demand his pills back because he can't take much more of this. Unfortunately, though he won't admit it to Clove, he's not sure if he'd be able to make the short walk to the Everdeen house that's necessary in order to do so.

Cato opens his eyes, his vision unsteady and twofold from the pain in his head. Clammy sweat has broken out across his skin, and the way his body shakes is reminisce of a Morphling addict who hasn't gotten their fix.

He gathers the strength to haul himself off the sofa and make his way back into his bedroom. Clove follows close behind, her laughter causing the extreme pain in his head to spike each time she opens her mouth. He goes to his wall of empty pill containers and begins to pull off the lids, searching for any pill he might have missed before. There are none.

Defeated, Cato slumps and then slides down the wall, meeting the bedroom floor with an ungraceful thud. There are no more pills left, and the pain is bad enough to cause spots on his vision. It won't be long until he passes out, or worse, and the thought gives him some relief.

"Pain, pain, go away. Come plague Cato another day," Clove sings shrilly to herself. She repeats the little ditty several times as the boy sitting slumped on the floor watches her with hateful eyes. She tosses him a clever smile, and even under his affected vision, her image has never been clearer.

"If you ask me," Clove says nastily, "I think the pain's here to stay."

He doesn't have the energy left to answer. Instead, he turns his head away from the haunting ghoul and focuses on anything else. His eyes land again on the wall of pills that decorate the space behind his bed. From where he sits on the floor, he spots a single bottle that is different than the others. Laying on its side at the far end, it has been missed in his previous investigation.

Cato gathers whatever force of will he has left and uses it to make his body do as he bids it. Grateful there's no one around except for a shade who refuses to leave him alone, Cato literally crawls across the room to reach the pill bottle. He reaches up for it with a shaking hand and knocks it down from its perch. The _clack! _of pills rattling around on the inside of the bottle is a welcomed sound to his ears. Finally, he can get some relief from this awful pain.

He opens the bottle of pills and looks inside. Larger pills than what he usually takes shift around within the container, his trembling hand causing them to rattle around again. The pills are a brighter, more sickening shade of neon green.

These are the pills that Brutus brought to him several weeks ago.

Brutus had told him to use them only for his '_really bad days.' _If this doesn't count as one, he's not sure what else would. Cato barely hesitates as he dumps some of the pills into his sweaty palm and then shoves them into his eager mouth. Pain is a powerful motivator. He takes four pills instead of the normal two, and only realizes afterward these are actually stronger than his old pills. A '_higher dosage,' _Brutus had said. If it could help control the pain, Cato can't bring himself to actually care what they are.

The medication works fast. Within minutes, Cato can feel the pain begin to soften and recede. The large spot it took up inside his mind is shrinking. Clove must sense it too, given the way she looks at him. He expects to see her upset now that her fun's been foiled, but instead she is wearing a grin so wide it looks as if it could tear her face in two.

"District 2, looking out for their own as always," Clove boasts, words like honey. "Even though you're ex-District 2 now, it's more than what I can say about District 12."

"District 2 wants nothing to do with me," Cato hisses, his hand again at his temples. "At least the Everdeens care enough to try and help."

"_At least the Everdeens care enough..._blah!" Clove repeats, sickened. "Do you even realize the shit you're driveling now? The Everdeens are the ones who took away your pills!"

"They were..." Cato pauses, trying to keep his train of thought in line. The soothing effect of the pills is dulling the pain, but it is starting to feel as if it's dulling other things as well. The pain is receding, but so is the ability to think straight. "They were trying to...help me. "

"Some help they did you," she scoffs, clearly unimpressed. "Leaving you without anything when your headaches started. They _knew _you were going to be in pain, but do you think they gave a shit? No!"

The pills are making a muddle of his mind, he reasons to himself. Since when are thoughts so difficult to hold on to? Maybe he shouldn't have taken so many of Brutus's pills.

He'll question later if he should have taken any at all.  
>[here's a hint—probably not].<p>

"They pretend they care, but that's only because they're afraid of you," Clove continues, undaunted by his lack of response. "I've been trying to tell you that all along, if you've only listened to me."

The pain has almost completely disappeared from his brain, pulling itself back inside whatever box it came from. In the empty place it leaves behind, there's something else beginning to grow. The new feeling begins to seep across his mind, digging itself into familiar thresholds, and Cato realizes it's not very new at all. Instead, it's only the first time it's been given such free reign over his mind.

He knows this feeling very well, almost as well as the pain. The two seem to go hand in hand, after all.

The feeling is anger.

Pure rage.

It's enough to drag him to his feet. Cato stands up from his position on the floor and takes an uncertain step towards Clove. She doles out another sharp smirk, encouraging him to approach her further.

"I mean, did you see where their help has left you?" Clove rants. She beckons him closer with a swipe of her hand, but something in him still hesitates. Clove gives him a dirty scowl, but remains relativity unperturbed. To his unsteady eye, she appears to be more determined than ever. Clove takes to pacing across the bedroom floor, leaving behind slimy, green footprints in her wake. Her image, moments ago so clear, is twisting now, distorted. "Can you even realize what the Everdeens sugarcoat as help actually is? Can you see the extent of their _caring_?"

Clove's words pick away, knowing exactly where to strike.

"They left you to crawl across the floor _like a dog,_" the shade oozes. Her features have begun to run together, but he can still make out her eyes. Cato didn't remember Clove having green eyes, but the neon green irises glow eerily bright nonetheless.

"Are you a dog, Cato?"

His pride flares up immediately upon being poked. "No."

"Then why let yourself get treated like one?"

Cato shakes his head, trying to clear it. To focus. His temper is pushing past any rational thought, flooding his mind in a way Clove has always seemed to encourage. He feels the way he did that day on the porch with the Peacekeeper, the day he hacked off the man's arm and nearly killed him.

Clove always has chosen her words in a way that would anger him the most, using the right combination to get him to flip his shit in the most violent way she can. He always thought she was only doing it to be annoying, but he realizes there's actually more to it than that. She wasn't hoping for him to lose his temper, _she was counting on it. _But it's much too late for that now.

It's much too late for many things.

"It's sad to see what's become of you." Clove finally stops her pacing and looks him dead in the face. "All because of that girl." She gives him a look of calculated pity. "It's always been because of that girl."

Anger has fully replaced pain in beating against the walls of his skull. Fury wails its horrid song inside his brain, and it's screaming for her blood. Nothing seems as important right now than doing what he promised himself to do from the start.

"Kill...her?" he asks, and Clove narrows her eyes at the slight uncertainty he still shows. She decides to be merciful this time and lets it go. Hesitancy or not, she knows she has him. Finally, finally has him, despite her other failed attempts.

"Yes, that's it," Clove says. She steps closer to him, bridging the gap between them. "That's exactly it. You've got it now."

Cato stares straight ahead with unseeing eyes and allows Clove to drape herself all over him. She molds her body against his, as if she'd like nothing more than to melt into it. She continues to do what she has done from the very start: fuel his anger and unleash his rage.

"Time for Katniss Everdeen to die."

* * *

><p>::<p>

The green pills are scattered across the floor. The broken vial lays forgotten amidst the mess.

Pills crunch beneath her bare feet, and Katniss takes a step back to look at the several she's accidentally crushed. One of them has broken in half from the force of her foot, cracked straight down the middle. She bends down and picks the pill up from where it fell, grasping it tightly between her fingers. Katniss holds both halves of the pill in her hand, studying it with mild curiosity. There is some kind of liquid oozing out from the broken middle, the color a more noxious shade of green than the paler exterior of the pill.

Prim stands up from her chair, preparing to clean up the mess. Katniss tentatively reaches out and dabs at the green ooze with her finger. The sensation that rushes across her skin from the contact is instantaneous, and there is only one thing in all of Panem that can cause such a reaction.

"Prim, don't touch them!"

The younger girl stops immediately, but her expression is surprised. "What is it?"

"It's these pills. What's _in _them." She drops the broken pill from her hand as if it's burned her, watching it hatefully as it falls again to the ground. "They're not painkillers at all." Her sister tilts her head in confusion, not understanding, and Katniss doesn't expect her to. Not in the way everything has crystallized for her. The scattered pills glitter innocently across the tile floor, but Katniss knows them for what they are.

"It's tracker jacker venom."

* * *

><p>::<p>

**This fic is now halfway complete. **

**The last scene of this chapter is actually one of the original four scenes this story has been based around. Most of the plot/sub-plots written in the last twenty chapters were largely created to lead up to this. **_  
><em>

**My thanks for the overwhelming amount of feedback left for the last chapter. I honestly wasn't expecting so much after not updating for months, and it made me incredibly happy to know this story still has its readers. It's really thanks to you guys that I had the motivation to write this chapter up so quickly.**


	22. Respect

"Larger than regular wasps, they have a distinctive solid gold body and a sting that raises a lump the size of a plum on contact. Most people can't tolerate more than a few stings. Some die at once. If you live, the hallucinations brought on by the venom have actually driven people to madness."

-_The Hunger Games, _pg. 185

**Convergence**

Chapter Twenty-Two

How far are you willing to go to reach someone?

[and what if they can't be reached?]

* * *

><p>::<p>

"Tracker jacker venom?"

The words hang in the air, escaping from Prim before she can think of something better to say rather than repeating her sister. She looks down at the green pills scattered across the floor and then back up at Katniss, whom wears a look of disgust on her face.

"What are you talking about?" Prim prompts again, trying to get Katniss to focus on something other than the pills. The older girl's eyes are far away, and Prim can tell that her sister has disconnected from the world around her.

"Katniss, what did you mean?" She pleads for a third time. "Answer me!"

The desperation within her sister's voice seems to snap Katniss out of the place she's gone to in her head. She blinks, concentration broken. She looks at Prim as if surprised to still see her there, and her little sister stares back as equally confused, if not more so. The staring contest does not last long. Katniss heads abruptly for the closet, and Prim hears her rustling around in there for a moment before she emerges again. She holds a broom in her hands, her fingers tight around the handle.

"Here, please take this." Katniss says, her words clipped. "Do me a favor and sweep them up, okay? Don't get rid of them yet, Mom may want to look. Dump them back in a container and put them somewhere out of the way for now. Don't touch them."

"But why would there be tracker jacker venom in Cato's pills?" Prim asks, demanding answers. She's unable to keep up with her sister's thought process, and it's making her anxious. "I don't understand."

"I don't know why," Katniss says, the tone of her voice agitated. "But it's not good. It's not good at all."

Prim tilts her head, comprehension dawning from the way her sister is acting. "You had this happen to you in the Games, right? You were stung by the tracker jackers too."

"Yes."

"Didn't they make you...?"

"Hallucinate, yes." Katniss answers absentmindedly, her thoughts racing faster than her mind can keep up. "Crap. _Hallucinate._"

"Katniss?"

But her sister is still a million miles away, her gaze distant and unfocused. "That has to be why. It makes sense now."

"What does?" Prim asks, concerned. She approaches the older girl carefully, as if not to startle her. "Katniss?"

"That's why—no wonder he thought he was—" Her voice trails off for a moment, and then continues. "Well, that would explain Clove, wouldn't it?"

"Wasn't Clove the other District 2 tribute? What does she have to do with anything?"

"You'd be surprised," Katniss says mirthlessly. There's a feeling growing under her skin that stinks of nerves and dread. It has taken root, spreading faster than she can give it reason. Her eyes refocus on her sister before flickering towards the window. Several of the Victor's Village houses can be seen from where they stand, and Cato's house is included among them.

"Prim, can you go to Haymitch after you clean up the pills? Let him know what happened?" The feeling inside her hisses to _go. get out. go NOW. _

"S-sure. But what am I supposed to tell him?"

"Just to meet me at Cato's house, as quick as he can. Thanks." Katniss drops a kiss on top of her sister's head. "I'll be back."

This instantly makes the younger girl worry. "Where are you going?"

Katniss, who is already heading out of the kitchen, looks back in surprise at the question. "Cato's. I have to tell him about the pills." There's an urgency within her bones, the one that's demanding for her to hurry. That feeling snarls its frustration at the detainment Prim's many questions are causing. _too long. too late! _

"But that could be dangerous! Tracker jacker venom is a big deal. We don't know what it's been doing to him. He's been taking those pills for months."

"Then it's a good thing we took his last bottle away, right?" Katniss says, hoping to reassure her sister. Her nerves are causing a volatile churning within her stomach, urging her to _hurry hurry hurry. _"I'll be okay. I have to make sure that he knows, that's all. Just in case he finds any extra bottles he might have missed before." The anxious feeling is growing ever stronger, careening down her bloodstream and spreading throughout her body. Her blood quietly murmurs _run. _

"Why not wait for Haymitch?"

"I can't."

There is no explaining the uneasy emotion swelling deep within the most secret parts of her mind. It won't let her relax. She has to go, and go _now. _No waiting, no side trips. Logically she knows going first to Haymitch would be the smarter choice, especially when she doesn't have any explanation for the urgency that is telling her to move. Let Haymitch know, and then they could go to Cato's house together. But it's not logic that drives her, it's the irrational need teeming through her body _to fly out the door_.

_Hurry! Hurry! Hurry! _every nerve seems to shriek.

And she doesn't need to know why

she listens

and goes.

* * *

><p>::<p>

She rings the door bell and he doesn't answer.

She rings it again.

Nothing.

"Not home, Cato?" Katniss mutters to herself, staring at the door as if it holds the answer to her question. She stands on the porch for several long moments, feeling increasingly like a fool with each second that passes. Berating herself for overacting, she turns away from the door and walks back down the steps. It's possible he could be in town, or off training somewhere near the edge of the woods, wasn't it?

But the feeling that boiled within the pit of her stomach hasn't quieted. It surges up anew, reaching tendrils of unease throughout her body and burying themselves deep within her heart. She can't stop herself from turning her head around one last time as she walks away and it's then she sees it.

The hand visible through the second story window.

Katniss stops dead in her place, staring up towards the startling sight. The hand is pressed against the glass, the palm open and flat, fingers splayed against the pane. There's a pulse that seems to shake the muscles, rattling fingernails against the glass. Katniss winces from the horrid _scratching _sound the motion surely makes, even though she's not close enough to hear it. The tension seems to radiate through the window as the fingers strain crookedly against the pane. The hand quivers for one long moment before the owner snatches it back, smearing the hand down the length of the glass and then vanishing from view.

The hand is gone, but there's a streak left behind to mar the clarity of the pane. Katniss may be a distance away, but she's close enough to recognize blood when she sees it.

_Damn._

The bubbling anxiety brewing in her mind finally bursts, and she doesn't give herself time to think.

Katniss vaults up the steps, taking two at a time. Ignoring the doorbell, Katniss bangs her fist on the door over and over again. "Cato! Open up!" she yells in time between the thumps. Her movement is erratic and hurried. "Open the door!" He doesn't come to the door, but something inside the silent house tumbles down with a crash. The noise is so loud that it almost sounds like an explosion has gone off behind the walls.

The crashing sound continues, each sound going _pop! pop! pop! _one right after another. Each crash is its own miniature firecracker of sound. She can't see what's going on inside, but the noise of whatever it is cannot be from something good. Biting her lip in frustration, Katniss throws herself forcibly against the door and gives up on knocking. She bruises her shoulder for her troubles, but the door refuses to budge.

A different person, after witnessing what she has, would have taken the opportunity to get as far away as possible. It doesn't occur to her that she should be looking for a way out instead of a way in.

She goes down the stairs a second time, scanning the ground with quick, roving eyes. The grass is kept neatly mowed within the Victor's Village and it doesn't take her long to spot the rock she's looking for. Grasping it tightly in her hand, she returns to the porch and uses the rock to shatter the window next to the door. The glass gives easily, fragmenting upon itself and falling in shards to the floor. Katniss eases her hand through the hole with careful precision, groping for the lock. It takes her several long moments to find it, but then the lock unclicks and her hand is on the doorknob. She twists and the door eases open, almost apologetic for all the trouble its caused her. The crashing noise stops as soon as the door opens. The hallway yawns innocently before her and everything looks to be in place.

It is too quiet to be trusted.

Katniss carefully lets herself inside the house and leaves the door unlocked. She is wary and alert, her senses urging for caution. She has been in enough situations before to know to trust her instincts when they warn her so blatantly of danger.

Her gut says to leave, and to leave now. Katniss proceeds further into the house anyway.

The weight of the knife she keeps hidden in her boot is a comfort against her skin. While she hopes she doesn't have to use it, she's still fully capable to do so when pushed. Katniss walks as silently as possible, wincing every time her feet step upon a creaky board. The house is so still.

Cato's house is similar in style to the Everdeen's own, so Katniss soon nears the edge of the hallway and is within view of the opening to the kitchen. She cautiously peaks her head into the room, but it is empty. Everything seems to be in perfect order, yet Katniss isn't deceived.

Her lips move to mouth the word _Cato _but puts no sound behind it. She doesn't trust the silent calm. The only noise is the buzzing of her own heart drumming in her ears. Katniss wills to it be quiet since such a thing could get her killed. She edges out of the kitchen, her steps quiet and muffled. She chooses where each of her steps should fall on the wooden floor below in effort to reduce sound. It might prove to be overly cautious, but she won't risk drawing any further attention to herself than necessary.

The sneaking girl treks down the hallway and reaches the edge of the living room, where she stops to take a look inside. Her shrewd eyes take in the moderately intact room, but she's able to pick out what doesn't belong.

There's a towel laying crumpled on the living room couch.

Katniss eases herself into the room, drawing close to the towel. She reaches out a hand and runs her fingers over the soft cotton. The towel is still damp. Thoughts of what Cato would be using the towel for run through her mind, and she can't prevent herself from thinking '_was he using this to dry off after a shower?' _The notion causes her to blush. The towel is too small, a washcloth really, to be of any use for drying a body.

Katniss leaves the towel where she found it and proceeds to inspect the rest of the main floor. She finds nothing of interest. Drawing closer to the bottom of the steps, Katniss looks up towards the second floor. There is only one place left to check. The floorboards above her make a hollow _creak, _as if agreeing with the conclusion. The sound causes shudders to run down her spine. Katniss checks for the fourth time that her knife is on her person and then she begins to climb the stairs. The crashing has stopped, but in its place comes a mumbled, indistinct voice rattling from above. Katniss proceeds slowly, her eyes fixed at the top of stairs. She doesn't know when or if or _what _could appear at any moment, and she needed to be ready.

Katniss is about halfway up the stairs when the squealing sound of wood against wood echoes from above. The sound is drawn out and loud. It stops only momentarily before there's a giant _crash _that erupts. It is the loudest one out of them all. Katniss gives up on caution and speeds up the stairs, coming face to face with a closed door. She allows herself a moment to draw a long breath, and then puts a hand on the knob and slowly opens the door.

She expects the worst, but finds nothing awaiting her beyond the door.

Well, that is not exactly true.

Edging the door open allows her a glimpse of a bedroom turned into a disaster zone. There are pill bottles scattered like leaves all over the floor, the door itself hitting one as it opened and causing it to roll into a new resting place. The bed has been slammed against the right wall of the room, the plaster cracked from the force. There are skid marks carved into the wooden floor, suggesting how the bed was roughly hauled across the surface.

The only window within the chamber is directly opposite from where she stands. The sunlight of the day glitters through the glass, turning the bloodstained handprint a brilliant shade of rust red. The figure she spotted earlier is nowhere to be seen, the mumbling voice gone silent.

Katniss takes a step into the room, then another, and then several more. The room remains hushed and gives up none of its secrets. She fully enters inside, surveying the damage with sharp eyes and a hand that's never too far from where she keeps her knife.

There's a blur of movement, a quick rush of air, and the door behind her slams shut.

Katniss spins around, but it's already too late.

Cato stands as a barricade between herself and the door, and he has clearly gone mad.

* * *

><p>::<p>

It's not the words he's mumbling rapidly to himself, or the streaks of smeared blood on his temple, or even how his body shrieks of tension that allows her to come to the conclusion that he has lost his mind. It's, as always, the eyes. His pupils are blown wide and sightless, the whites of his eyes crinkled with bloodshot veins that have popped as neatly as the lidless bottles around them. There are lines that encircle his skin under each orb, the skin itself smudged the color of a bruise. She's seen the out of control look before; she recognizes it well. Katniss knows firsthand how it is to look into Cato's empty eyes and find nothing of him reflecting back. This time is different. This time, when Katniss looks, there's an entirely different person who stares back.

Cato's not just gone, he's been replaced by a madman she's never met.

"Look, Clove. Look. She's come to us. She's saved us the trouble and come to us," Cato says rapidly, his words tumbling upon themselves in effort to get out. He takes a step forward and she's wise enough to take a step back.

"Clove's not here, Cato," Katniss tells him calmly, hoping her words don't waver and betray how anxious she really feels. She measures the distance between her and the door before giving it up as a lost cause. There's no way she's making it out that door with him blocking her way.

Cato ignores what she says as if she hasn't spoken at all. "It is convenient, yes it is," he says before pausing as if to listen to someone else respond. Katniss hears nothing except the beating of her heart and Cato's own heavy breathing, but Cato nods his head as if he's just received an answer. He addresses the silence as if it were a person, saying, "You were right, you thought she'd come."

"It's just us," Katniss insists. She's trying to point out to him what is so obvious to her, as if doing so would help him see reason. The dead look he shoots her shows that he will be having none of it.

"She doesn't see you. How could she not see you?" Cato's eyes jump to a location a little to the right of where she stands, speaking to the empty space. "You're standing right there."

Katniss shifts a little away from the spot he's so fixed on, but that only results in future tension from the boy in front of her. "Trying to sneak off like a gutter rat, are you?" He takes another step forward, forcing her back. "Always sneaking. Always hiding."

"I'm not. I swear I'm not," Katniss says, trying to reason with him. "You have to look around though. _Really _look. I'm here to help you, if you'll let me."

"Stupid girl says to wants to help, did you hear that?" Cato says, continuing to talk to the empty space next to her. "Doesn't she know she already has?"

Dread sinks into her stomach. She hasn't gotten this far in her life without being able to recognize a situation that's going as rapidly downhill as this one is. Her fingers flex down towards where her hidden knife to strapped to her leg, but she knows better than to reach for it yet. "Listen to yourself! Whatever's going on here, whatever it is, we'll figure it out. But you have to let me—"

"Slumsgirl never liked to talk before, but now she won't shut up." Rivets of blood creep down from his hairline as he talks, trailing in lazy lines across his temple. He brings up his good hand to wipe some away as it gets in his eye, smearing even more blood across the side of his face. "You both are talking too much."

Katniss tenses as he swings his crazed gaze back and forth, alternating between looking at her and the empty space next to her. The muscles in his maimed arm begin to jump beneath the skin as he becomes increasingly agitated.

"Stop yelling at me, Clove," he snaps abruptly. "I can't think with all your shouting."

"Cato," Katniss begins again tentatively. Her memories race back to the private moment they'd shared not too long ago, back when Cato confided in her about seeing the dead girl. He'd trusted her briefly then, for whatever reason. She had to try to get him to do the same now. "Please. Look at me. There's only me here. It's just us. Remember what you told me before? About Clove? It's the pills—" Cato takes another step towards her, making her falter momentarily with her words.

"My medicine?"

"It's not medicine, not really. They're laced with tracker jacker venom. The Clove you've been seeing isn't real. She's an hallucination! I don't know why you're seeing her now if you're out of pills, but please, Cato, you have to believe me. You have to fight this. Whatever you're seeing now isn't real_._"

She regrets the words instantly for it is entirely the wrong thing to say. Shadows steal over Cato's face, twisting his features further into something unrecognizably cruel. Katniss can tell that he is beyond the ability to understand what she is saying.

"Clove, how did this stupid girl win? She lies with her filthy tongue. I will rip it from her head and make it stop. She's telling me you're not here, but you're clearly here. You're right here. Your voice is in my head and you're smiling at me right now and you're here you're here you're—" He turns his attention on Katniss fully for the first time since she's entered the room. "_Don't you dare tell me she's not here when I'm looking right at her!" _

His body speaks of agitation and rage, giving Katniss the slight warning she needs to leap away as he lunges for her. Bottles clatter across the room as she adjusts her position, wary and ready for him to come at her again. The empty bottles add an extra complication, for they are underfoot and scattered all over. Katniss warns herself not to trip on them if it comes to a fight. A mistake with Cato would only end in a brutal death for her and she isn't ready to die yet.

Cato gazes at her with wild eyes and Katniss knows without a doubt that he will attack her again. There's more blood dripping down his face but he doesn't bother to wipe it away this time. The muscle spasms she spotted earlier within his arm are now rippling further up his body, spreading from his arm as if it were a disease.

There's nothing of the boy she's come to know looking back when she stares at him. Instead, he reminds her of the muttations they've once encountered: strong, violent, and completely out of control. There is no reasoning with a rabid creature, but she doesn't have many options left to her.

"I'm sorry," Katniss offers quietly, trying to placate him and buy herself some more time before this erupts into an all out brawl. "I was wrong. You're right. Clove's here. We're all here, all three of us. I made a mistake."

Cato pays no heed to her words. "Stop shouting. I can't concentrate if you're shouting. I know, I'll kill her. You don't have to shout."

Cato doesn't mention killing her by name, but he doesn't have to. It's always been Katniss, after all. It's been his intention to kill her from the moment she volunteered for her sister and it has remained as such ever since. She hasn't forgotten, nor has he let her. Even after he was booted out of District 2 and thrust into District 12, he has never completely recanted his vow. It's what made spending time with him the last few weeks so difficult. As much as she tries to ignore its existence, there's been a stirring of doubt—hope? best not to label it—in her mind as she's gotten to know him, and he know her. There's a treacherous little voice hidden inside her head that has taken to whispering things she wouldn't dare mention aloud. That maybe that murderous drive to kill her was changing, maybe things between them can change, _were _changing...but that hope means nothing now. There are things in life that are certain and there are others that can never be. 'What if' and 'maybe' haven't mattered since the moment she's walked into his bedroom. He's going to try and kill her, and in the end nothing they've shared has made a difference in changing that.

She acknowledges this truth with cool logic, but it still causes her to flinch. Cato laughs.

"Oh, she knows. I've let it slip. Don't worry, Clove, it'll still be fun. I'll make it last." Cato makes another grab for her, forcing her further into the room and farther away from the door. "I'll make it last for as long as I can. Then they'll see. They'll know."

"Who will know?" Katniss asks, despite herself. She needs to get him away from the door. The boy before her is not the person she's come to know. Katniss reaches down for her hidden knife, revulsion filling her veins as Cato's mouth curls into an excited smile upon seeing the blade.

"_Everyone," _Cato says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

Her hands betray nothing of her tumultuous emotions as she removes the knife from her boot and clenches it firmly within her hand. She keeps the blade in a faux-relaxed position by her side, her eyes keeping careful watch over his movements. Katniss steadies her breathing and slips into a defensive stance, knife ready. "You're going to let me through that door."

"She wants to go out. She wants to leave!" Cato echoes, delighted. "Clove, this stupid girl thinks she's going to leave here alive." He laughs again, the sound harsh and grating. Katniss finds herself longing to hear the startled sound of wonder he makes whenever Prim surprises him with something unexpected, or his soft, amused chuff of breath when he hears Katniss murmuring under her breath about a villager who tried to get in her favor. The laughter that carries throughout the room is now is that of a stranger's. There is nothing in his voice that holds any resemblance to the person she has begun to know, and she finds herself missing him. Katniss wonders if she'll ever hear Cato's normal laugh again, or if that boy was gone forever, lost to this crazed creature before her.

Cato leaps for her a third time, his movements wild and hard to predict. He lands a hand onto her shoulder, but Katniss manages to twist out of his hold. However, she's not expecting his knee that sweeps up and nails her in the stomach. The air rushes out of her and she's sent sprawling across the floor, scattering bottles as she goes. She wheezes for breath in the hurried rush of prey around a predator.

Cato bends down and gently scoops up the knife she's lost in their scuffle off the floor. He strokes the scarred fingers of his maimed hand almost lovingly across the serrated edge, pressing his fingers hard enough to break the skin and draw blood. The pain it causes brings a wickedly delighted smile to his face. Katniss feels nothing but disgust at the twisted expression that is stamped across his mouth.

"Shut up, Clove, not yet," Cato snarls to himself. He grips the knife tighter and talks to open air. "It's no fun to kill her without some play." Whatever he hears must not please him, for his expression twists further from fiendish delight to growing fury. "No, you don't know what you're talking about. You're the one who died in the Games, remember? I'm not going to take your advice after you got yourself killed." He listens again, this time shaking his head furiously as Katniss struggles to regulate her breathing. Her ribs ache from where his kick connected, warning of bruises to come if she manages to get out of this alive.

"I told you to stop shouting. It hurts when you shout and it makes everything jump," Cato hisses to himself. His steady stream of babbled words doesn't waver. "Why won't you stop screaming?"

Katniss cautiously pulls herself upright into a sitting position as Cato goes rigid. He sinks to the floor, crouching on his knees. He transfers the knife into his weaker hand, bringing his stronger hand to rest against the wall of his temple. To Katniss's utter horror, she can only watch as Cato's fingertips dig into the side of his skull as he claws furiously at his own head. She remains frozen in her place as he scratches against the side of his skull, fingertips dredging at the skin and causing more blood to pool down his face. Katniss realizes with a jolt that the blood she spotted on his face earlier was probably caused by a previous assault against himself. Cato has voices in his head, and none of them are friendly.

"Make it stop make it stop make it _stop," _Cato's voice echoes again and again as he claws against his skull, as if attempting to dig out whatever demon plagued him. His nails dig crooked furrows across the field of skin. "WILL YOU STOP SHOUTING AT ME?"

His eyes flicker up to hers and there's a glimpse of fear within his gaze. It's the look a person wears when they're outside their element, unable to control themselves and yet unable to stop. It's the first sight of emotion beyond insanity she's spotted, the first sign that there's still something there, _something human, _left inside. Empathy rushes through her in a sudden burst of energy and Katniss cautiously reaches out her hand in a fool handed method to reach him. She has to draw him out, draw out the person behind the rage, and see if she could touch whatever part of him remained.

Cato will stand for none of it. Her fingers are outstretched towards him, searching for the boy who is her not-friend, but he stops his clawing to smack her hand away. There's blood under his nails and scratches littering his face. He leaves some blood on her arm, a leftover reminder of who is the one in charge here.

"Don't touch me," he growls. Katniss's expression hardens, and she remembers herself. She scrambles up and away from him, surging in one quick movement for the door before he can get the better of her. Cato catches up when she is more than half way there, grasping her elbow and throwing her backwards and away from her escape route.

"Do you think she'll scream too? Maybe I should cut out her tongue now so I only have to listen to one of you." Cato stands again between her and the way to freedom, her stolen knife still within his grip. The fear she had spotted upon his face has faded away as if it had never existed and only the monster boy remained.

"You don't have to do this," Katniss reasons, hoping to draw out some spark within him again. "You don't have to kill anymore. It doesn't have to be like this."

"_It doesn't have to be like this_," Cato repeats, mocking her. His words express nothing but contempt. "Clove, did you hear that bullshit? You had to have heard it. She doesn't know, she doesn't get it." Cato's body shakes with poorly controlled energy brought on by his rage. The blood continues to drip down from his temple, collecting at the edge of his chin, and then dripping in steady _drop drop drops _onto his shirt and the floor. Katniss doubts the stain of it will ever truly come out.

"I want to kill her I want to kill her I want to kill her," he repeats again and again, words slurring upon themselves. "Always have to kill everybody."

"You're wrong," she risks to say, trying to ignore the way he snarls back. "You're really wrong about that. You don't have to be that person anymore, do you understand?" She reaches for him again, but he slips out of her way. It's a funny game they play, alternating between the pursuer and the pursued. "Please. There is another way."

He focuses another not-Cato stare upon the empty space next to her. "There has never been another way for me."

"But there is. You're already on that path. I've seen you here in District 12, I've seen who you could be," Katniss urges, "I already have."

"This girl talks as if she knows me, as if she knows something I don't. How ridiculous is that? She is not District 2. She has no idea."

"I know that that Capitol has done something to you," Katniss answers. "What I told you earlier about your pills wasn't a lie, it's the truth. They've been poisoning you with tracker jacker venom laced in your painkiller pills."

Her words cause Cato to glance into a new corner of the room. Katniss follows his stare, her own eyes landing on several larger green pills that lay clustered around a nondescript bottle. Her heart sinks. "Oh, Cato..." Katniss says, whisper-soft, "I thought you said you didn't have any more pills."

The muscular boy doesn't answer her. He continues to talk to himself, ignoring her completely.

"You don't have to do this," Katniss tries again. "It's impossible to completely lock your past away, I know that better than anyone. But you can make your peace with it and try to move on. You were trained to win the Games, you've told me about how it was your entire life. But that part is over now, there's nothing more you can do about it."

Cato's gaze moves from his hidden cache of pills and back over to her, his face a perplexed mix of focus and mindless madness. Katniss continues, unfaltering, "I didn't understand that before. I have my own troubles that sometimes I can't look past, since if I do, I could lose my family. I know what kind of person you think you are, but that's not all you can be."

Cato pauses in his wild ramblings as if to consider her words. His head tilts to the side, but his eyes are still not his own. "Things can be different," Katniss tells him earnestly, "You can be different."

"There's so much pain. Clove knows, don't you Clove? She doesn't know," Cato murmurs to himself, fixing the braided haired girl with a cloudy stare.

"I know it hurts," Katniss tells him guardedly, not allowing herself to forget the knife he still holds in his hand, "but I can help you, if you let me." The truth is that she can promise no such thing, for she doesn't know if he can find his way back from such poison. The notion of Cato, and all his potential and growth, lost forever to the Capitol's meddling causes an unexpected ache to bloom deep within herself. The raw feeling of regret catches Katniss off guard and wrenches a small breath of surprise out of her.

He realizes the lie, or he finally bored of what she has to say.

Cato lunges for her. This time Katniss is prepared. She darts to the side and manages to hook her foot around his own, causing him to stumble. The girl makes a break for the door, but Cato reaches out with his arm and encircles her ankle with a fist, dragging her down to the floor with him.

What results is an all-out scuffle. Katniss kicks out her feet, driving him away in a bid for freedom. She sees the knife swinging down at her legs and rolls out of the way just in time to avoid injury. The knife catches some of the fabric of her pants, causing a hearty _rip _as a portion of material tears away from the main garment. Katniss manages to get to her feet first and Cato isn't far behind. He wields the blade again, aiming for the small of her back and forcing her to turn around to avoid the knife properly. She weaves and dodges, but she is up against a weapons expert. Cato's strikes with the dagger rain down upon her smaller frame and it takes all her concentration to avoid a fatal blow. The rest of her clothing quickly becomes littered with small rips and tears when she is not careful enough to steer clear of a hit.

Katniss is fast, but Cato is faster. Despite the loss of a fully functioning arm, Cato's years of training against Katniss's self-taught ways put her at a disadvantage. She avoids any fatal strikes, but his attacks still get past her guard and draw blood.

She won't last against him in a fair fight, so she doesn't make it fair.

Katniss chooses her moment wisely, waiting until he launches a blow that's aimed at her chest. Instead of dipping away from the blade, she pushes herself forward. She brings the broad part of her arm up as she blocks, grimacing as the blade digs into the lean flesh of her forearm. Cato makes a satisfied sound that's cut short as Katniss surges towards him. She throws her weight against him, wincing as the blade drives itself further into her arm, and pushes herself against the expanse of his chest. She is not strong enough to knock him over, and Cato's arrogant smile betrays how he already knows this. The move, in his eyes, is a worthless one.

The force of her body straining against his does, however, force him to take a step back in order to hold his stance. His foot has barely slipped backwards before he catches sight of Katniss's smirk. It is only mere seconds that follow until he realizes the cause of her mirth.

He has forgotten about the bottles.

The one step that he has seceded to her has brought his heel down upon one of the empty bottles that lay haphazardly throughout the room. The bottle rolls backwards out from under his foot and Cato can't maintain his balance. He stumbles backwards, unable to catch himself, and Katniss uses his own arrogance against him. With a burst of hidden strength, she slams the rest of her body weight against his. The momentum of her body against his lack of balance drives him to fall in an inelegant tumble to the floor.

He is down momentarily, and Katniss has won her chance to get away. The problem is, however, there's a price she pays for such a reckless act. She has to commit herself to the momentum in order to have enough force to shove him backwards, and she is already falling before she realizes can't stop. She cannot catch herself. When she realizes she will fall too, Katniss has the sense of mind to yank the blade from her arm so the collision won't drive the blade in deeper. It clatters again to the floor harmlessly, the metal dressed up pretty in red.

Cato stumbles to the floor. Katniss stumbles and falls on top of him.

There is a bubble of passing calm that envelops the two of them. With her cheek pressed up against his chest, Katniss can feel Cato's rapid breathing. His chest is rising and falling in sharp, hurried movements. His body, she notes in some abstracted thought, is quite warm. The wound on her arm is bleeding red and it's mixing with the blood that already stains his shirt, but the boy below her doesn't pay it much mind. Her head is resting over his heart and her ears are ringing with the sound of its steady beat.

She lifts her slowly head and looks at his face. Cato stares back at her with round, surprised eyes. Tracker jacker is still teeming within his veins, and even though this calm is only fleeting, it grants her this lone moment without his madness. It's Cato looking back at her, not the madman, and Katniss has never felt such an overwhelming urge just to reach him and make him stay.

The moment passes, the bubble pops, and the curtain of madness falls over his eyes again.

Katniss rolls herself off his body and springs up off the floor. The pain within her arm has dulled her movements, and as fast as she bolts for the door, Cato isn't far behind her. He reaches out a hand and yanks her backwards. She follows his gaze down towards the dropped knife, knowing that he is only moments away from reclaiming it as his own. Katniss can't allow that to happen. She sweeps out her leg, knocking the knife away from Cato and sending it skidding across the room. Her aim is good; it disappears out of view underneath the bed.

Her victory is short lived.

Cato curses her name, calling her all things under the sun as well as a few creative terms she's never heard before. Katniss realizes quickly that while she might have succeeded in disarming him, it will only go so far. As Cato reacts in rage, dragging her across the room with such force that he almost yanks her arm out of its socket, Katniss is met with the realization that he is simply physically stronger than she is.

What Katniss lacks in strength she makes up for in skill with her bow. She has never been a close combat fighter, not even in the Games. Though she could certainly hold her own against a regular individual, the boy hauling her across the room was no normal opponent. His muscled, well-disciplined form has the advantage over her leaner frame, and without her bow, Cato easily overpowers her.

Cato slams her against the wall. Her head collides with the wall with one sharp _crack, _causing her eyesight to blur for several long moments until the Career boy shifts into view again. He uses his shoulder and chest to pin her where to stands, the warmth of his body presses against her own again. He crowds her, leering down with an superior smirk. His good hand is firmly gripped against her shoulder, locking her into place as he creates a prison with his body. Katniss tries to wiggle out from his grasp, struggling to get away from where he holds her pinned. Cato does not budge an inch. He is a wall of solid muscle and murderous intention, and she acknowledges with cool certainty that there will be no getting away this time.

Cato's eyes are alight with victory and his teeth are bared in an unearthly grin. The blood from his self-inflicted scratches oozes down his face and creates a hellish mask over half his features. He finally has her, after all these months he has spent waiting, and his expression betrays how much relishes it.

Katniss know that he will kill her. There is no doubt of that.

She looks into the face of her murderer and knows that she is looking at death.

The emotions that follow such a realization aren't exactly the kind she would of expected. Katniss is angry, that's for sure. She's not ready to die and leave the people she loves behind. But she's not angry with him. A rush of regret and sorrow mix together and displays itself across her face. Katniss does not want to die, but now that the hour is at hand, she can't blame him for it.

Small wonders, she muses, that she cannot find it within herself to hate Cato even when he is about to kill her.

"If I am to die, then don't let it be for waste."

Cato cocks his head at her, drunk on early victory. He doesn't understand what she's saying, not one bit. The madness spurred by the venom has reduced him to the simple-minded creature in front of her, one who only understood violence and death. Her calm acceptance of the situation has surprised him. Clove, no doubt, is screaming in his ears right now to end this. Her noxious words, an embodiment of both the venom and Snow's underhanded ways, have dug their claws into his mind and refuse to be dislodged.

"You may not see it now, but I do. The Capitol has been taking advantage of you for far too long, and I'm not only talking about how they've kept you drugged with tracker jacker venom," Katniss says, her voice steady and strong. "District 2 has taught you only how to be a Career. You can kill me in a dozen different ways and I wouldn't be able to stop you."

Cato's insanity sparks across his face. He is tired of the chase; he wants the pay off of his victory over her. His fingers begin to creep from her shoulder, but Katniss's voice doesn't quiver.

"You may not be able to answer me any longer, but I hope this still reaches you somehow. You may not want to admit it," Katniss says with a shaky laugh, "but you _were _changing. The Cato who had dinner with my family, the one who walked through town with me and tried sweets for the first time and liked them, the boy who was able to trust me enough to share his fears and his laughter, _that _Cato was not the person I met during the Games. The person you were before all of this would have never done any of that, and especially not with someone like me."

Cato's hand moves with lazy arrogance across her collarbone. He is heading for her throat.

"You've been changing ever since you've come to District 12—no, even before that—and that's not a bad thing. You were given a chance to change who you were, to become someone more than who the Capitol wanted you to be, and that's amazing. I probably never gave you enough credit, but I know that change is never an easy thing. But you were doing it, and I—I think you were happier."

Cato's hand finds her throat and closes around it. His fingers are strong and encircle her skin easily. He does not place any pressure yet upon her throat, though his flesh feels like a brand against her own. Katniss's breath hitches from the contact, but she does not stop talking.

"Don't let it all be for waste," she says fiercely, as if he did intend to throttle the life out of her shortly. Even facing death, Katniss will not allow herself to cowed. She needed to get this out, for him. "This isn't you. Don't let the venom in those pills take everything away from you. Don't let the Capitol take any more of your life from you."

Cato's eyes flare bright against her own, his stare heavy upon her face. His gaze flickers down to where his hands rest at her throat.

"The Capitol did this to you, made you into this. You've always hated losing, Cato, are you going to lose them now? I know you've wanted to kill me from the start, and if that's how it's supposed to be, then fine. But at least have the dignity to try and kill me yourself, and not as the shell of a person you've become because of those pills. This..." she says, her words alight with conviction and feeling, "This is not you."

The ex-Career has had enough. His fingers begin to squeeze at her throat, a warning for her to stop talking. The pressure causes her to gasp, but it's not enough to quiet the words she wants to tell him, has to tell him_, _before she loses the chance to ever say them.

"There's a point within yourself that's hard to find, but it's there, Cato, I swear to you that it's there. The focus that exists between rage and serenity will let you find the true balance between yourself. The person you were before the Games and the person you had the chance to become after it was over. It's what you've been searching for this entire time," Katniss rasps out. Her voice is turning harsh and scratchy from the pressure he's placed upon her throat. "You weren't there yet, but you were starting to find the balance. You really were changing. Don't let them destroy that."

She stares up at him with eyes that are free of hate and bitterness. Her breath is coming in short gasps between her lips, but she still manages to share one last small smile with him. Cato finds himself unable to look away or shake off the sight of it.

"Killing me," Katniss says simply, "will not give you what you want."

And then there are no more words to be said, for Cato begins to earnestly choke her.

* * *

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Cato may only be able to fully utilize one hand, but there is much strength within it. His palm crushes against her windpipe and his fingers are bands of steel against the soft skin of her throat. Unable to go down without a fight, Katniss' hands scrabble against his. Her fingers pluck at his own, trying to pull them back from his suffocating hold and allow her some precious air. He remains immovable.

His hand is relentless against her throat. Katniss' lungs cry out for air as Cato continues to cut off her supply. She will die from asphyxiation if she cannot get him to stop. Nothing she does has any effect on the ex-Career. He astutely predicts when she kicks out her leg to drive him away, using his own to press her further against the wall. His fingers constrict tighter and tighter and she can feel involuntarily tears darting from her eyes at the pain. She doesn't know if it's the pain at her throat or the burning in her lungs that hurts the most.

The world around her is starting to dim. Katniss chokes out his name in a desperate attempt to reason with him, but he remains unfeeling. Her hands still fight against his hold, but they are beginning to lose their strength. Katniss is having a harder time controlling her body. She is losing whatever fight she had left against him, and will soon die.

Katniss stares into the mad face of her killer and finds no regret in his features. Cato is riled up and excited, eager at the feel of life slipping away from her body. The daily dosing of tracker jacker venom has done its work well. Her gaze slips from his face and down his torso, coming to rest on his scarred arm. The muscle beneath the skin is still in spasm, causing Katniss to flashback to all the other times the venom had started to take hold of Cato.

She's just about out of air. The world is phasing in and out, and all the color is gone. There's black around the edges of her vision and only Cato is painted in grey. Her hands drop away from where they fought to free her throat, the motion causing Cato to let out an excited sound. He takes this as a sign that she's giving up.

She stares at his scarred arm again, taking in every flaw of the mottled, twisted skin. It is nothing like the perfect arm that is pressed against her throat, and yet, she finds herself preferring the look of the imperfect one instead. Katniss focuses whatever strength she has left and sends it to her own arm, praying that her body would listen to her one last time and grant her this favor. Her hand reaches out, trembling and unsteady, and comes to rest against his own scarred hand. Her arm barely has the strength to remain extended, but her touch is enough to startle him. Cato rears his head back in surprise, the muscles in his body tensing under her light touch. His expression is suspicious, ready for her to dig her nails into his flesh and score one final wound against him. She doesn't.

Katniss takes Cato's hand instead. Her fingers thread with his fingers, bringing their hands together palm to palm. Her skin is warm against his own. Katniss gently squeezes his hand with hers, directly causing a shudder to ripple through his body from the intimate contact.

The gesture of farewell uses up the last of her strength. Her hand falls away and leaves his hand clutching at empty air. The shudder she has caused rocks through his body a second time as he fights the urge to chase her hand with his own and fill the empty space once again. The feeling of her skin against his, her hand together with his own, triggers something deep within himself. There's a voice inside his head, one that cuts through the hazy fog that has surrounded his brain the entire time, and it's screaming at him to let her go.

Clarity comes in small doses; the venom is too strong to release him fully. But her simple action has woken something up within him, and the world starts to come into focus once again as the film from his eyes is peeled back. Clove's next to him, and she's screaming too, but the voice echoing inside his own head is louder.

The voice inside his head is _his _voice. It cuts through all the chatter going around his brain, sharpening in one narrow focus onto the only person who matters in the room. The words of old ghosts no longer have a hold over him.

Cato's grip upon her throat lessens the instant he returns to himself. Air rushes back into her parched lungs as he pulls away, causing her gasp and sputter. Her legs have no strength to hold her and Katniss leans heavily on his body to avoid falling to the ground. Cato doesn't understand what's going on or how it got to this; his memory a blur that will take time to sort through. He only knows that she's coughing without pause and there's terrible bruises against the soft skin of her throat that suspiciously look like the shape of his hand.

"Katniss...?" Cato whispers, confusion tainting his voice. He reaches an unsteady hand out towards her, his eyes wide at the marks that paint her throat. "Did I do this to you?"

And then his eyes roll backwards in their sockets as he collapses against her. Her legs manage to keep her standing without his support as his body slides down to the floor, knocked unconscious. Katniss's gaze leaps from his fallen body and then up to the figure who had no qualms with knocking him out.

* * *

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Haymitch is blazing with unbridled fury in a way she has never seen him. He stalks over to Katniss quickly, sending at sharp kick at Cato's fallen body as he goes, and inspects her from head to toe. His face darkens further upon seeing the damage done to her throat and the relief that she is still alive is palpable within every line of his body. Katniss is still coughing and wheezing, but she manages to smile at him in reassurance that she's okay. He gives her a tight smile back, reaching out a hand to cup her cheek. She nudges against it in gratitude.

That relief, however, passes quickly out of his face as he stares down at the ex-District 2 boy at his feet. Haymitch reaches for the dagger he has around his belt and takes it into his hands. He has finally come to the end of his rope and will allow for no more wildcards. Thanks to the venom, Cato has proven all his worries to be true. The older man's features are warped with anger and determination as he draws the dagger back, ready to plunge it unapologetically into Cato.

Katniss's body moves before she can think better of it. She steps around Haymitch, coming between him and Cato. Her mentor's expression shifts from rage to shock as he asks, "Are you out of your mind? What are you doing, Katniss?"

The girl simply shakes her head. She plucks the dagger from his hand and tosses it under the bed to join the other knife as Haymitch stares at her in outrage.

"Is that your way of saying no? You don't want me to kill him...have you gone absolutely insane? I've warned you about him before," Haymitch reasons with her, unable to understand what she is doing. "You can't trust him, you'll never be fully able to. He's violent and dangerous, completely out of his mind and wants to kill you. He just _tried_ to kill you. I let it go the last time he showed signs of violence when he attacked that Peacekeeper, which, may I remind you, can still come back to haunt us? It was against my better judgment to do so, I would have had them haul him away right then and there, but I didn't, Katniss, because _you_ forced my hand. And I knew that allowing him a free pass from that was going to come around and hurt you in the end," he snaps, "And clearly, judging from what I just saw today, I was right!"

Katniss firmly shakes her head again, wincing as the motion irritates her throat. Undaunted, she refuses to move from where she standing above Cato. _No, _her actions say, _I will not let you kill him. _

Haymitch clenches his fists in frustration. "What will make you see reason on this? What hold does he have over you that's made you defend him over and over again? There's nothing about him that makes him deserving of your friendship! Don't you shake your head at me and deny that! You act like he's your friend, though I have absolutely no idea as to why. He has only ever brought you pain and will only serve to do so again," Haymitch pleads, distraught as to why she just can't understand this. "Let me end things tonight. It is for the best and you know that. He will only try to kill you again and I refuse to stand by and let that happen!"

"N-no, Haymitch," Katniss's voice comes out low and raspy. It clearly causes her much pain to speak, her throat raw from the beating it took. Haymitch makes a motion for her to stop and spare herself the agony, but she has to make him understand.

"He h-had his chance, to k-kill me."

Haymitch mutters his own thoughts on that under his breath, but doesn't interrupt. Katniss meets his searching stare, Cato's handprint unforgivable against the fair skin of her throat, and she knows that it's all Haymitch sees. It is not all she saw.

"He had his chance," she repeats, looking down at Cato's still form, "and he let me go."

* * *

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**Without getting too personal, I found out back in January that someone whom I love very much was diagnosed with terminal osteosarcoma, or bone cancer. I have had no desire to write (or do much of anything else) since finding out. It's coming to the point that he does not have much time left, but I know how much he enjoys it when I write. Yesterday I decided to write for the first time in almost six months and ended up with a full 10,000 word chapter today. Funny how that happens. **

**If you spot the XMFC easter egg, you're not imagining things. It's there and it's not even subtle. What can I say? DOFP gave me a lot of feels. **

**My thanks to everyone who has left so much encouragement and kind words about this story, even though it was probably starting to look like I was never going to update this thing again. Your words mean more to me than you could ever know. **


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